


Anyone Else

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 9x6 divergence, Acknowledging past traumas, And it's not light and easy, And making him step up to the plate, As much as I think Mickey deserves better I can't convince him to want otherwise, But I'm going to make them work it out, Calling Ian out on his shit, Canon did, Fuck fine language, Giving Mickey the Ian he deserves, Healing in prison, Healing the past, I blame canon, I didn't break Ian, I'm sure there are all kinds of triggers, IF FICTION TRIGGERS YOU THEN DON'T READ FICTION, Ian Gallagher Redemption, Ian has competition, Lot of fucks, M/M, Multi, Nothing you wouldn't see on the show, OC death, Of course it will be Gallavich ever after, Prison, The emotions Mickey isn't allowed to have, Written before S10, tread lightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I DON'T WRITE FLUFF (but I do write happy endings).But Mickey knows.  He knows better than anyone on this fucking Earth that if it’s good, it’ll be BAD soon enough.  If it’s love then it’ll be HATE soon enough.  If it’s strong then it’ll be WEAK soon enough.  If it’s feels good then it’ll hurt.  It’ll HURT so fucking bad he can’t breathe and he can’t see straight and all he can fucking do is keep moving.  Because standing still, standing still will get you killed.  When a thousand pounds of grief and heartache are crashing down around you and hurling through the air and ripping out of the ground around you; standing still will bury you.--------Ian’s not sure why he’s closed off and shut down.  And he’s not sure why he doesn’t look at him, look at him like he used to.  He’s not sure why it’s happening, but he is sure that it fucking HURTS.He’s not sure why things have become more like friendship than anything else, he’s not sure why they’re acting like cellmates and old friends and the past is buried and the future is blurred across those blue irises.





	1. Regret

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my darkest, heaviest work ever but it does involve a lot of things that won't be up everyone's alley. It's a little anti-Ian for awhile. They're in prison together but he doesn't just get to have Mickey at his beck and call. He's got some competition from Mickey's time in Mexico. He's got some competition with the bad memories of their life together. And he's got some shit to own up to. But the thing is, even when I give Mickey a get-out-of-Gallagher-jail-free card, he never takes it...
> 
> There will be chapter warnings and you are welcome to back out whenever you want :)
> 
> Oh, and it's like somewhere around chapter 17 or 18 before you'll finally start feeling better. I word spewed all over the place and took out some frustrations from later seasons of the show on Ian. Because we're allowed to do that sometimes. It's different than I normally portray Ian, but sometimes we just need to shake things up.
> 
> I'm pulling some strings from my other Mexico work to add drama to this one. If you want the full OC stories or how I hooked him up with Deran, those are in Right There Next To You. Not necessary to read it to get what I'm using them for in this one. But that is also the work where I filled in enough of canon with my own explanations for Ian's later season behaviors and forced myself to like him again.
> 
> I promised myself I wouldn't do another post s6 work again after I did RTNTY, but well, the season 10 news I have mixed feelings about. 
> 
> So prison - I'm trying to walk some line between realistic and what Shameless gave us for Beckman. 
> 
> So Mickey's sexuality - I find this to be the least interesting part of him, but I know some of his fans fixate on it. Thing is - canon started it. So don't get angry at me for trying to put somewhat of a positive spin (for the sake of Mickey's emotional health) on it instead of making it a forced thing every single time. Mickey fucked women before and after he came out for Ian. Whatever his motivations were, once again RTNTY would probably be the place to get my full fill-ins on that stuff as well, but for this work, I'm just not caring. I'm not labeling, it's just that he had some fun in Mexico. There's not going to be any graphic memories or anything, but *shrugs* it's called fun for a reason :)

Regret

One time. One time out of all the times that things went to shit. One time of the times that things hurt and burned and ached and split his soul in half. One time of all the times that he FAILED and he kept pushing and wanting and needing. One time of all the times that he watched him walk away. One time of all the times that he said shit he didn’t mean and he did shit he didn’t want to do and he did shit he did want to do and he said shit he did want to say. ONE time. One time of all those times that he regrets Ian Gallagher.

It wasn’t the gunshot wound or the shotgun pellets or the whore or the Alibi. It wasn’t the fucking or the kissing or the spooning. It wasn’t the porn or the hyper-sexuality that left Mickey exhausted and sore and achey and cringing every time his green eyes raked over his body. It wasn’t the mania and the stripping and the Army and the funeral where he was swinging a cross as a weapon. It wasn’t the knife against the throat or the baseball bat in the air. It wasn’t the fighting and hitting and punching. It wasn’t the limp dick and the B vitamins. It wasn’t the steak so rare it mooed or Sammi. It wasn’t Terry or Svetlana or Yevgeny or any of that. It wasn’t ANY of that.

It wasn’t prison and ink. Ink that he started covering as soon as he looked into his eyes and heard, ‘yeah Mick, I’ll wait’. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t the hope dying in his heart every single fucking day that passed without a visitor, with phone-calls left unanswered. It wasn’t seducing a lady guard and busting out. It wasn’t the bleachers or the Southshore docks or the van or the road trip or the dress or the border. It wasn’t ‘this isn’t me anymore’. Because he KNEW that already. He knew that through the ‘you think my life hasn’t moved on since you were locked up?’ and ‘I have my shit together and I have a fucking boyfriend’ and ‘I bottom now if you want to switch things up’. He knew that. He KNEW that already. He knew that when they ditched Damon in that parking lot and they laid in the cooling night air and watched the stars. He knew that when he said ‘fuck, I missed you’. He knew that when he wondered, ‘you ever think of me?’. He knew THAT.

He knew that by the look in his eyes and the way his breathing changed and the way he couldn’t hold eye contact and he couldn’t respond right away and he couldn’t fucking fuck him face to face and breathe into his mouth the way he did that one time and run his fingers through his hair the way he did that one time. 

HE knew that.

It wasn’t crossing the border alone in a fucking dress and making his way through a foreign country with a foreign language and a foreign set of street rules. It wasn’t being alone. It wasn’t being hungry and scared. It wasn’t missing Chicago and hating the sun. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t ANY of that.

Because the truth is this. Mickey is used to disappointment. He’s used to be treating like he doesn’t matter. He used to being walked on and kicked and punched. He’s used to being looked at like he’s a piece of trash and he’ll NEVER be anything more than a piece of trash. He’s used to being treated like he’s nothing more than a warm body. He’s used to being hated by the people who should love him. He used to being walked on. He’s USED to being a doormat.

Mickey is used to being lied to and cheated on. He’s used to wondering when the other shoe will drop. He’s used to knowing that if something is good, that’ll it’ll never be great. It’ll only be bad. Bad soon enough. He’s used to living every single good moment like it’s his fucking last because he knows good never lasts. He knows he’s not worth those few good moments that are handed to him by GOD or NATURE or FATE. Or whoever the fuck hands those things out. He knows he’s not worth the rare smile and the rare laughs and the rare quiet moments that are just that. Quiet. 

And he knows those quiet moments are just the calm before the storm. Maybe sometimes in the eye of the storm. Either way, it’ll end soon enough.

He doesn’t regret Ian when he’s pushing him away and he’s trying to protect him and he’s kicking him in the teeth. He’s kicking him in the teeth because he doesn’t get it. He’ll never get it. He saw it. He saw what happens when a Milkovich gets something good. He SAW it. He saw that it turns bad just like that. He saw it. 

And he still didn’t GET it.

And he doesn’t regret Ian when he’s telling him he’s nothing but a warm mouth. And he doesn’t regret him when he ends up in juvie again. Because it turns out he ain’t just a warm mouth. 

He doesn’t regret Ian when he gets out and walks under the bleachers to the sight of him fucking another dude. He doesn’t regret Ian when he’s pistol whipped and a whore is in his lap. He doesn’t regret Ian when he’s got a tire iron in his back and ordering ‘I want the gun back Mickey’. And he doesn’t regret Ian when he’s locking the front door and entering the cooler. He doesn’t regret him when his long fucking fingers wrap around Mickey’s on the shelf. He doesn’t regret him when he finally kisses him. And when he finally kisses him like he means it. And when he tells everyone, ‘I’m fuckin’ gay’, even though he’s not sure if that’s true. He’s not sure if that’s true. He just can’t watch him walk away again. AGAIN.

Because his life for the last three years, his entire fucking life has been defined by watching Ian walk away. HIS life. And his, ‘you’re gay and you love me’, and he’s not sure. He knows he loves him. He knows that. Because if he didn’t love Ian then everything he’s done for him and with him and because of him, everything he’s done behind closed doors and to get himself locked up again, and to get his ass beat by his father; if he didn’t love him, it would all be for naught. 

But Mickey knows. He knows better than anyone on this fucking Earth that if it’s good, it’ll be BAD soon enough. If it’s love then it’ll be HATE soon enough. If it’s strong then it’ll be WEAK soon enough. If it’s feels good then it’ll hurt. It’ll HURT so fucking bad he can’t breathe and he can’t see straight and all he can fucking do is keep moving. Because standing still, standing still will get you killed. When a thousand pounds of grief and heartache are crashing down around you and hurling through the air and ripping out of the ground around you; standing still will bury you.

And Mickey doesn’t regret the ‘holy fuck’ and he doesn’t regret the arm pinned beside his head and the kiss. And he doesn’t regret the feel of his body over him and the feel of his lips against his and the feel of his tongue sliding into his mouth. He doesn’t regret that. He doesn’t regret the things he did to get back to Chicago. He knows what it means. He knows what it means to roll on a Cartel. He knows he’ll have to sleep with one eye open. But he’s always done that anyway. He can’t remember a time he didn’t. Even when Terry was in the can and Svetlana was fucking some chick from the rub-n-tug and she was too busy to care about whose brains she had to bash in with a hammer this week. Even then. Even then he slept with one eye open.

Because he never knew. He never knew if Ian was going to slit his wrists or take too many pills. He never knew if his hands would be trailing up his thighs while his eyes lingered on his face to see when exactly Mickey’s eyes would open. He never knew when he’d walk out, walk out that door and strip and fuck and suck off anyone willing to hold still for long enough. 

And he didn’t regret that. He NEVER will. 

And he didn’t regret it when he finally pulled out of the kiss, ran his hand through his dyed black hair, he stared at his face, fell into the depths of his eyes, let his presence completely overwhelm him and then he tapped his cheek and told him, “the fuck you think this is Gallagher? Some kind of gay resort with a fuckin’ prison fetish room?” and jerked his head to the side, motioning he get the fuck off him in broad fuckin’ daylight, grumbling, “maybe after lights-out,” as he sat up and remained there on the bottom bunk.

And waited. He waited for something. ANYTHING from him. Anything. 

And it didn’t come. No apology. No concern. No wondering or questioning or confessing. Nothing. There was nothing.

And he doesn’t regret that either. Stunned silence. He can BLAME it all on stunned silence. He can blame it all on ‘this isn’t me anymore’. But he doesn’t regret it. 

He can blame it on the disorder and he can blame on the nature and the nurture and he can blame it on the Southside and the parents who didn’t give a shit and the siblings who didn’t give a shit. They didn’t give a shit when he left, when he packed up in the night and slipped out the front door. They didn’t give a shit until the Army came busting down a stall door. They didn’t give a shit when he was gone and then he was home but he was gone in a different way. And they didn’t give a shit because they’d been conditioned by Monica to not give a shit. So he can blame it on Monica. 

He can blame it on the Gallagher family. For always putting themselves first. He can blame it on Frank for being in it for himself and himself only. He can blame it on Fiona for raising her siblings when she was still just a kid herself. He can blame it on Lip for being self-absorbed. He can blame it on Frank and Monica for being toxic and being their only example of love. He can blame it on Fiona for going through men like kleenex and self-destructing every time something good happens. He can blame it on Lip for treating every woman he’s been with like some accessory. Like some toy to play with but never care about, play with until it can’t be played with anymore and leave it on the curb for the garbage truck. 

He can blame it on whatever the fuck he wants. 

But at some point it has to be Ian. At some point it has to be IAN because Mickey is sick and fucking tired of blaming himself.

————

He doesn’t regret it when it’s lights out and they’re in their own bunks when the guard walks by. He doesn’t regret it when he can hear Ian breathing and he knows he’s up there waiting for Mickey to say something or do something or move or shift or fucking breathe in some manner that would make it okay for him to climb back down. To climb back down because ‘I got bottom, so looks like you’re on top’, but he’s NOT even sure anymore. 

So he doesn’t. He just lays there. Silent and unmoving. And he thinks about the beach and the tequila and the sand under his bare feet. And he thinks about how he spent all of Ian’s cash while he was living out of that green Subaru with that stupid dress buried in the trunk along with the wig. And he slept on the beach after getting so fucking drunk that he tried swimming. And it’s a miracle he didn’t die. Or maybe it’s NOT. He’s never really been certain of that. Maybe drowning wouldn’t be so bad. ‘Cause eventually the real, physical, literal, actual drowning; eventually it’s over. Not like this figurative drowning. 

Not like the downing in his eyes and his presence and his unchecked energy and his darkness and his moods. His fucking moods. Not like drowning in the never ending cycle that is Southside life. The booze, the drugs, the violence, the law-breaking and the nose-breaking and the knuckle-bruising cycle of sink or swim. Sink or swim. Sink or fucking SWIM. And what Mickey has never been able to figure out is why he just keeps fighting his way to the surface when he knows, he knows that soon enough he’ll get pulled back under.

And he was free and clear. He was lying on the beach hungover as fuck when he woke to the feel of a shotgun being jabbed in his gut.  
And fuck it, if he thought drowning was an okay way to go, well so would a shotgun blast at close range. 

————

He doesn’t regret it when he wakes on the first morning and Ian is already sitting at the little metal desk in their cell penning a letter to god knows who. And he doesn’t ask. Because he’s not sure he CARES. So he lays there and watches the mattress above him while no one’s in it. And he thinks about those brown eyes for a moment, the way they gazed up at him through those camel lashes. And he thinks about his hands for a moment, the way they lingered on his flesh like it was the most exquisite thing they’d ever felt.

But, fuck, he DOESN’T regret it. 

Not when they go to chow and they still haven’t said more than a few words to one another. Not when the lines are drawn in the sand and he knows who’s got his back and who doesn’t. When he knows who to avoid and who to never make eye contact with and who to never acknowledge in any way for any reason. Ever. 

And he doesn’t regret it when he reports for laundry duty. And he doesn’t regret it when Ian is at the infirmary and he feels like he can breathe a little. And he puts his gloves on and he puts the dirty in the machines and he presses the buttons and he puts the clean in the dryers and he presses the buttons and he puts the dry on the table and he starts sorting. And he folds and the hum of the machines and the drone of the machines and the feel of the repetition rocks him into a waking dream where he’s alone in his head and he doesn’t have to share the space with Ian or his father or his sister or his son or his whore wife. 

He doesn’t have to share the space with anyone. But he shares it with her. He shares it with her big blue eyes and her snarky comebacks and her long legs. And he shares it with him. Him and his blond hair and his beard that tickled Mickey’s nose when he kissed him. Him and his arms lax around his knees with his butt in the sand and a smile aimed at the ocean. And he shares it with him. Him and his smooth brown skin and his big deep brown eyes and his long delicate lashes. Him and his silky black hair that smelled like beach salt and shampoo when he kissed Mickey’s chest. 

But he doesn’t regret it. Not when it’s chow time again. And it’s free time and they get to go to the yard and play some ball. And he doesn’t regret it when he watches Ian smile in the dying light of day. And he doesn’t regret it when it’s shower time it’s back to the cell. And it’s lights out and they’re in their own bunks again. And they’re still not speaking. Not about anything that matters. The polite shit about ‘how was your day?’ and ‘you survived your first one, the rest ain’t bad’. 

And he doesn’t regret it when he’s silent and he’s lying on his back in the prison darkness and he’s watching the way the bunk above him is indented with Ian’s weight and he’s watching it move every time Ian moves. And he knows he’s waiting. He’s waiting for the invitation to come down. Or he’s waiting for Mickey to climb up.

And he doesn’t regret it when he STAYS where he is. 

————

Mickey doesn’t regret it when the days turn into weeks and the weeks turn into months. And they’re talking, talking like old friends who just so happen to have ended up in the same cell in the same prison at the same time. He doesn’t regret it when they start acting like cellmates. When they keep dancing around the past and avoiding the future. When that magnetic pull is stifled and buried and the kisses don’t happen and the touches only happen on ACCIDENT when one of them is moving past the other or sitting just a little too close in the cafeteria or handing off an item for the other’s use. 

He doesn’t regret it when he sees Ian making eyes at some fairy who blows anyone and everyone in exchange for prison currency. And he doesn’t regret it when he doesn’t remind him ‘they’ll pound your ass and not in a good way’. And he doesn’t bother telling him that he won’t have his back this time. That if Ian gets his ass pounded by homophobes then he’s on his own this time for making a decision for himself by himself without Mickey’s input and he’s on his fucking own and Mickey WON’T have his fucking back. And he’ll keep telling himself that every time he sees Ian’s eyes wander and every time they DON’T wander towards Mickey.

But he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t regret it when Ian’s head is shaved from some dude with lice in the infirmary. And he doesn’t regret it when his mind wanders to that place of wondering WHY. 

Why would you have to shave your head for coming in contact with someone with lice? You never shaved your head when Carl brought lice home. 

He doesn’t regret it when Ian has his phone calls and his visitors and he sees Fiona one day in the yard and he tells Mickey about how she’s leaving. And about how she can’t let that chance go, he doesn’t want her to let that chance go. He wants her to get out.

And he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t remind Ian that he fucked his chance and he fucked Mickey’s chance. He doesn’t say it because it wouldn’t help. And he doesn’t comfort him when his own regrets are bubbled right there in his ginger freckled chest and he won’t say it. He won’t APOLOGIZE and he won’t WONDER and he won’t ASK.

So Mickey doesn’t tell. And Mickey doesn’t regret.

————

Not until one day. One day when he gets an escort out to the yard. And sitting at the picnic table in the middle of fucking Chicago in the middle of the fucking summer with a fucking cupcake lit and waiting is her. And him. And fuckin’ right, Mickey chose the right fuckin’ lock-up. And he gets to hug them. And he gets to feel them. And he gets to smell them. Not for long. Just for a minute. And the guard is there. And he’s watching. And he’s making sure that nothing gets passed between them. Nothing physical, nothing verbal. Nothing important.

And he REGRETS it. He regrets it when he looks at those big round brown eyes looking at him with all the fucking softness the world has to offer. And he regrets it when he looks at her and her blue eyes that are reflecting the summer sun and a million words she’ll never say.  
He REGRETS it when he eats the cupcake for his birthday and he smiles ‘cause it tastes like Mexico. It tastes like sunshine and tequila and sex. It tastes like the two years he spent down there doing whatever the fuck he wanted. It tastes like the things he’ll never tell a soul about ‘cause it’s no one’s business but Mickey’s. It tastes like the long nights and the late mornings spent with the two people sitting at this very table watching him smile. It tastes like them. It tastes like every fucking inch of them.

And he regrets it. He REGRETS it now. ALL of it.


	2. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's thoughts on Mickey being distant.

Losing

He’s not really sure when it happened. When he started losing Mickey. When he started pulling away from him. 

He was so certain. Of all the things he was uncertain of, the one thing that was always true and always there was Mickey. The one thing that always came back to him and it never mattered what Ian did to hurt him, he was the one person that still loved him. The one person that he could always rely on to be there. To give Ian the things he WANTED, to do anything to make him stay or make him come along or make him leave or make him happy. Mickey would do ANYTHING for Ian.

He’s not sure when that changed. And he can’t, for the life of him, figure out why he got himself locked up again if it wasn’t FOR Ian. But he hasn’t had the balls to ask him. He hasn’t had the balls to ask him anything really. He rolled on a cartel to get himself an easy low level penitentiary, to get himself back to the States and back to Ian. He rolled on a cartel and then he pulled some strings, whatever those strings were Ian can only assume blackmail, it’s not like he has the money to pay off the CO to lock down his cellmate. As far as Ian can tell, he’s not using sexual favors. As far as Ian can tell, he’s not interested in sex. At all. Occasionally when he wakes in the middle of the night, he can hear him jerking off below him. And he wants to offer, he wants to ask, he wants to know. Just know, what is happening in his head. Why he’s here if he’s not here for Ian.

He was free, wasn’t he? He was finally FREE. All the things Ian wanted for him when he was hiding and afraid and locking himself in the cage that Terry built for him. He was free down in Mexico. And maybe it wasn’t sandals and tequila. Maybe it wasn’t us and the beach. Maybe it was working for a cartel and living in a slum. But it was freedom. Wasn’t it?

He’s not sure why he’s closed off and shut down. And he’s not sure why he doesn’t look at him, look at him like he used to. He’s not sure why it’s happening, but he is sure that it fucking HURTS. 

He’s not sure why things have become more like friendship than anything else, he’s not sure why they’re acting like cellmates and old friends and the past is buried and the future is blurred across those blue irises. 

He pushes it, just a little, just a tiny nudge. Lets his eyes linger on the table at the cafeteria where even the straight guys go to get their dicks sucked. He lets them LINGER on Paul, who sucks everyone’s dick for cigs and ink and cards and whatever else they’re willing to give. Even straight guys get their dicks sucked by guys in here. Or they power fuck a dude to make their point. No, it’s not a place to be openly gay and be accepted. Luckily there’s not a whole lot of queer lovers here who would have any reason whatsoever to watch the Gay Jesus videos. So he hasn’t been singled out, or recognized, or whatever. His story is always that he got here for being on a manic high with religious delusions and he blew up a van. No one asks for more than that as soon as he says the word DELUSIONS. 

Mickey put his protections in place. He made it clear who to trust and who had his back and where not to go alone and who not look at and who not to speak to. And so on and Ian was grateful as fuck for that. Because even if Mickey doesn’t LOVE him anymore, he at least has his back. He at least has his umbrella of connections from here and from Mexico and from wherever and however else he’s connected, and through him they’ve become Ian’s also. Without that, fuck, he’d probably be in here trying to unite the bottom bitches against their dominating and overly masculine abusive tops. Like last time. 

Like he has the fucking room to judge. After all he did to Mickey. Like he has any right to say what’s fair and what isn’t. After Mickey laid out all his cards, after he rode the mania and depression right there with him. After Ian filmed a fucking porn bareback and Mickey didn’t knock his fucking teeth out for it. After Mickey didn’t press charges when he kidnapped Yev. After Mickey withstood the avalanche of ups and downs and chasing and worrying and panicking and every single thing that Ian put him through. And didn’t stop loving him. And when he loved him TOO much, what did Ian do? Punched him in the face. He punched him in the face for trying to get him to take the meds. 

And now the court is making him take the meds. And it’s not Mickey’s fault. And Mickey’s not asking. He doesn’t care, he DOESN’T care if Ian is medicated. He doesn’t care if he’s feeling okay. 

He doesn’t care for anything more than him as a cellmate. Sure, they laugh, and they joke and they play cards, and they work out and they eat and sleep and shit and shower and shave together. And they’re next to each other more often than not. But it’s missing. It’s WRONG. It’s all fucked up and Ian can’t figure out why. 

And when Ian lets his gaze linger on the nob-job table, Mickey doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t remind him of the ass pounding. He doesn’t say a fucking word.

He doesn’t even seem to NOTICE.

And then one day he looks out the window. When he’s working at the infirmary. He’s filling out a chart and his eyes land on that head of dark hair in the summer sun. Sitting at the picnic table. And he smiles. There’s a cupcake in his hand. He smiles. He smiles at a man with dark hair and dark skin and a nice suit. He smiles at a woman with blonde hair and long legs and short shorts. 

He SMILES. And Ian realizes two things. Two insanely important things in that instant.

It’s been years since he’s seen that particular smile.

And he never knew when Mickey’s birthday was. He NEVER asked. He never told. Fuck, maybe he never cared. Did he ever care? Did Ian ever truly CARE about Mickey? Or did he only care about what Mickey had to offer Ian?

He watches as Mickey bites into the cupcake and the guy looks at him like Mickey hung the fucking moon. And he wonders if he’s ever looked at Mickey that way. He wonders if maybe there was a time, a time back in the day, back in the dugout or behind the bleachers or through the plexiglass. If there was a time, if there was EVER a time that Ian thought Mickey hung the moon. 

And every single star in the galaxy along with it.


	3. Someday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mention of cartel violence, brief mention of non-graphic M/M/F threesome

Someday

So there’s the time that some asshole mentions Gay Jesus and Mickey has to beat his ass for it. And when he comes back to their cell with busted knuckles and a a few sore ribs, Ian smiles at him and clasps his shoulder quickly. And it feels OKAY.

And then there’s the time that some asshole gets too close to Ian in the chow line and Mickey has to yank him down by the ear to his level and threaten to stab him in his sleep. And Ian smiles at him. And a memory like a dusty photograph of Ian in a hotel room, a smug look on his face as Mickey dragged some old queen pervert off him.

And it starts happening. All those THINGS, all those flashes of things they did together. The things they’d never do with anyone else. The things they never COULD do with anyone else. 

And then there’s the time that Mickey wakes up, more like opens his eyes and decides his body is no longer there and he can’t see through the fog and he kind of remembers waking in the dark a few hours earlier and stripping because he was fucking roasting to death, and then waking awhile later to burrow himself under every single item he could find to keep himself warm because he was fucking freezing and he couldn’t stop shivering and his teeth were chattering. And then he opened his eyes when a hand landed on his forehead and that hand was so fucking familiar even though he wasn’t even sure what his name was or where he was or how he got there. But that hand, and that sigh, that he could barely hear but he felt himself leaning TOWARDS it, “the flu Mick.”

Then he woke up, like really woke up when that hand was resting over his hand on the blankets beside his hip in the infirmary and he was groggy but no longer feverish and delirious. And that hand, that hand squeezed, and then let go. And Mickey wanted to reach for it. He wanted it BACK. But he didn’t. He let it go.

His smile is relieved but he doesn’t say anything. He takes care of Mickey until he’s back in the cell and he spends his entire fucking time in there with him, he doesn’t go out for his workouts or his phone calls or any of that shit while Mickey’s admitted. And he keeps fluffing his fucking pillows and making sure his sheets are straight and his feet are covered and his IV is adjusted and his bed is right and he fucking DOTES on him. Mickey hates it, but he kind of loves it and he can’t admit that. Because this is just how Ian treats patients. That’s all. It has nothing to do with Mickey.

And Mickey KNOWS that.

But he watches. He watches how Ian treats the other patients while he’s in there. He cares. He cares for the guys he treats. Even the shitheads. So, yeah, it’s just the patients. 

And when Mickey wakes up the first night back in their cell and he’s fucking suffocating under the blanket but it’s different. It’s not the flu. It’s not the infirmary. It’s different. It’s like he can’t fucking breathe because the fucking cell is getting too small and it’s too hot and it’s too dark and it’s too loud. And he doesn’t know what the fuck is happening. 

Then he’s there. He’s there, sitting on the edge of Mickey’s bunk and he’s not touching him but he’s talking. He’s counting breaths or some shit. And he’s looking at Mickey through the dimness of the cell and his brows are all furrowed in concern. He’s looking at him and counting and telling him when to breathe. Mickey finally takes a fucking breath like he’s just been fucking waterboarded and he remembers watching that fuckface waterboard that fucking kid after he lost a gram. That kid was like fourteen. When he was done waterboarding him he cut his pinky toe off. And that was the difference. The difference between being some shitbag in Chicago and pushing product for a cartel. 

That hand is there. Suddenly. Over top of Mickey’s. It’s warm and powerful. The squeeze is reassuring. Grounding. Then gone.  
His fingers grind into his eyes until the spots become a swirl and the swirl becomes blackness and the blackness becomes welcome. WELCOME. 

Fuck. He starts to wonder. He starts to wonder if they can be friends. If they can just be friends. Care for each other the way FRIENDS do. Without all the shit from their past rising back up and swallowing them whole. 

————

It’s starts slow. The looks that linger. The smiles that linger. The standing a little closer than he needs to. The looking over Mickey’s shoulder when he’s reading a book he borrowed from the library to study for his GED. When he can feel him breathing behind him and his mind wanders back to that night. The night they ended up at the Milkovich house after he came out. After he came out and he couldn’t stand staying in the Gallagher house for one more fucking night. And he wasn’t about to keep sleeping on the fucking floor like a fucking dog and sucking Ian’s dick whenever he wanted because Mickey wasn’t a fucking slave. And now that Terry was locked up again he could go home. He could go home and he could make Ian come to him. Ian HAD to come to him. He came out FOR him. He came out, fuck, and he wasn’t even sure. He wasn’t even sure he was fuckin’ gay. It was just Ian. Ian was ALL he ever wanted. Ian was the only thing his body ever wanted. 

But that night. That night when he wrapped his arms around Mickey and dragged him close to his chest after they were done fucking. And he hid his face in the back of Mickey’s neck and he kissed his spine. He didn’t say a fucking word and he didn’t need to, Mickey didn’t want to hear it and he didn’t want to say anything back. He just wanted to have the one thing, the only thing that had ever made him happy. The one thing he could have now, he could have it without the constant threat of his father looming near. He could have that one thing he’d wanted since he was sixteen and maybe he could admit it. Maybe he could admit that he wanted to be touched and held and loved. He didn’t want to just rush through the fucking, and he wanted the fucking kisses. He did. And maybe he could ADMIT that now, to himself and to Ian. 

He should have known better. He should have known better by then. That if it’s good, it’ll get BAD soon enough. 

Everything good goes to shit soon enough. That’s fuckin’ LIFE. 

————

In his closed eyelids at night she’s there and he’s there. It’s exactly as it was. With Eduardo behind him, with Lou on his lap. The two of them making out over Mickey’s shoulder. Moving and grinding and rolling hips. Muffled grunts of pleasure and lust and the feeling of being so overwhelmed with passion that he can’t breathe and he doesn’t want to breathe because he’s never felt so fucking ACCEPTED in his entire fucking life. 

And when he wakes with a start to the sound of Ian’s feet hitting the floor, rushing towards the stainless steel throne and hurling his guts out, when he wakes his hand is already on his dick and his dick is already leaking and it’s not like Ian can hear it past the gagging and heaving he’s doing, so he blows his load as quietly as he can in the towel he lifted from laundry and if there’s one perk to laundry duty it’s the endless supply of jerk rags. 

He clears his throat when the retching stops, tucking the rag under his mattress and wondering, “you good?”

“Fuck,” white knuckles on the toilet, “yeah.”

“Bug or what?”

“No,” heavy sigh, back of his hand across his mouth, “they added an anti-depressant.”

“You depressed?”

“No. But, it’s just, no. It’s just winter, or I don’t know. Homesick? Fuck.”

And maybe it’s pity. Maybe it’s concern. Maybe it’s one of those dusty old memories of lying behind him in his bed and kissing his love into his spine when he was too fucking sick to move. But it’s, “you can have my bunk. Easier to get to the toilet that way.”

And he means it like, ‘give me a fuckin’ minute to move to the top bunk’, but Ian takes it as ‘I’ll just lay down. Right now. Before you get a chance to move’. 

And fuck. Now he’s staring at the back of his head and he can smell him and he can feel him and he could reach out if he wanted to and he could kiss his spine and remind him that he’s LOVED. 

And fuck. Now he’s between Mickey and the door and he fucking hates that. That’s Mickey’s fucking spot. It always has been. He’s always been the one to watch the door. Whether it was here or the Gallagher house or the Milkovich house or the fucking resort where he got to stay in the fanciest fucking suite in the fucking place ‘cause he was fucking the owner and the owner fucking loved Mickey’s cock and he wasn’t afraid to tell him that. And he’d whisper all kinds of shit in his ear when he was balls deep in his ass, all kinds of shit that Mickey thought was fucking weird as fuck to say to someone until it wasn’t weird as fuck. It was actually kind of beautiful. And it actually made him start to think SOMETHING of himself. And it wasn’t just sex stuff. It wasn’t all about his cock and his body and his hands. Fuck, it was about everything. Every fucking thing. 

It’s not like he needs that shit. He don’t need reassurance and fucking coddling or fuckever. But fuck, it felt good. It felt fucking incredible. And it felt like Mickey MATTERED. Not just mattered, it felt like he was the center of the goddamned universe. And Jesus fuck it’s not like he needed to feel that all the fucking time, but fuck, it didn’t fucking hurt to have someone tell you you’re WORTH somethin’.   
He’d wake with the ocean air mingling with the scent of that dark smooth luxurious man, sometimes the smell of weed and the sight of her legs crossed at the ankles and propped on the railing of the deck. It never took more than a tiny shift of his body weight before Eddie was arching his back and dragging his ass over Mickey’s morning wood and muttering whispers into the lavender smelling pillows about needing to feel Mickey, needing to be woken up right, needing to start his day with the perfect morning kiss from the perfect mouth with the perfect cock. And of course he fucking did it, of course he did. ‘Cause it turns out topping ain’t so bad when someone wants you to. Wants to feel you inside him and around him and through him. And he’d grasp Mickey’s fingers in his and press them down on his abdomen and tell him some shit about how he’s exactly where he should be and even if it was just some horny sleek Hispanic fuck, he fucking knew how to make Mickey feel WANTED.

Maybe that was all he ever fucking wanted. Just to feel fucking wanted. Wanted for who he was and what he liked and whatever the fuck he wanted to be and it didn’t matter to Eduardo because Eduardo was into all kinds of shit and he never gave a fuck if Mickey was gay or straight or bi or questioning. In Eddie’s world it was just sex and it didn’t fucking matter who or how or where or when, the only thing that mattered was everyone’s consent and everyone’s orgasm. And holy fuck was Eddie good at tugging out a deep aching orgasm every single fucking time. 

Fuck.

Staring at the back of Ian’s head and wondering WHY. Why the fuck did he leave? Fuck. The ocean was better than cinder block and plexiglass and steel tables and steel toilets and bars and guards and shitty food and laundry duty. All this, all this just to find out that nothing is left. That nothing is left of what they once had. Was it shredded at the border and tossed out the window of the green Subaru or was it before that? Did it disintegrate with Ian wondering if Mickey still wanted to be with him even if he wasn’t medicated?

Like he didn’t already prove that shit? Like chasing after him and keeping him from bashing his sister’s face in with a baseball bat and keeping him from slitting Kenyatta’s throat and keeping him fucking alive when he wouldn’t eat or drink or use the toilet, like that wasn’t enough to PROVE it?!

What was Mickey supposed to say to that? Yeah Ian I’ll still fucking love you even if you’re stealing babies and running off with your meth-selling mother and fucking everything that moves and trying to beat people with crosses and what? Go ahead, go right ahead and pray to fucking Shim all you fucking want, go ahead and play the Gay Jesus thing out. Blow up a fucking van and end up all over social media. Go ahead. I’ll just kick up my fucking feet and watch you self-destruct just like everyone else in your fucking life. Just like your stable job and your stable boyfriend and your stable siblings with their shit together and your shit together and THIS ISN’T ME ANYMORE. 

But fuck Mickey for seeing his stupid mug on a the shirt of some fucking twink down in Mexico and immediately fucking worrying. Worrying about how he was destroying his life and burning his stability and where the fuck was the stable boyfriend now? And where the fuck was the job he was so proud of? And where the fuck were his siblings that he couldn’t fucking be without? And everything else. Everything else that WASN’T Mickey. 

And ‘I love you’ and how much Mickey wanted to fucking believe that. After everything. After every single fucking thing he’d done to rip his own life to shreds FOR Ian Gallagher. And his fucking family.

Fuck Sammi. Fuck her for not dying. Fuck Mickey for taking the rap instead of pleading his case and letting an investigation into Debbie’s part in the whole fucking thing play out. And fuck Mickey for not telling Ian the truth about it. And fuck Debbie for not telling Ian the truth about it. 

I’M NOT BROKEN. 

Yeah, well, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Not when you’ve broken everything we once had. Not when you’ve broken the future and we’ve both begun to HATE the past more than we ever LOVED each other. 

Fuck. His breath chokes off when Ian’s does. Like he just fucking heard everything Mickey was thinking about. His stupid hand lands on Ian’s back, right between his shoulder blades, right there where Mickey used to press his lips and tell him it was alright to feel like shit, whisper that he loved him. Right there when he was lying in Mickey’s bed for weeks. And Mickey was doing everything he fucking could to keep it all together. DESPERATE to keep it all together. 

And as soon as his hand lands on Ian’s back, a noise comes out of his mouth that makes Mickey’s stomach hurt and his chest heavy. A clear fucking noise that means he’s crying. Because he feels like shit and he can’t say he feels like shit because then Mickey will think he’s crazy and he’s unlovable because he’s crazy and the pills he’s taking because the court ordered it are making him sick and weird and foggy and he hates them but if he stops taking them then he’s violating his sentence and he’s back to being crazy and he’s back to being UNLOVABLE. 

Fuck. FUCK. Fuck.

He feels his body slide forward. He feels it move until he’s up against Ian’s body. Until his knees are jammed into the back of Ian’s. Until his chest is against Ian’s ribs. And his forehead is against Ian’s neck. And his arm is around his chest, and his fingers are slipping between Ian’s, and he’s holding them tight. Like he never wants to let go. Like he never wants to fucking LET GO.

Maybe someday he’ll figure out how. How to let go. But apparently today ain’t the fuckin’ day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take the threesome however you will - I didn't say where the penetration was happening so if you want to pretend Lou was just there for the making out or maybe jerking his dick, it's up to your imagination. Doesn't make a difference to me. The important part of it, is that Mickey felt secure and accepted and it was purely his choice to be there. 
> 
> So yeah, they're both already starting to show that they still care about one another. But the back and forth ping-pong game of emotions is not over. It's barely begun.


	4. Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You got any words for this Ian? No? Then show me you want it.

Words

He spends the night sweating and queasy and crying. Until it’s too fucking much and he ends up puking his fucking guts out. Then it’s blurry and it’s weird and everything is so distant but floating right there in his eyelids when he blinks. Like little flashes of things that once were, things that he had that he didn’t realize he had, or he didn’t appreciate them like he should.

And then he’s in Mickey’s arms. And he’s still crying silent tears and Mickey’s mouth is right up against his spine and it seems so fucking familiar but he can’t figure out why. And it feels like a fucking protective dome over him when his arm is draped over his shoulder and his fingers are clamped down on his. But it only makes more tears fall. It only makes more tears fall as more images rise. More things that he’s not sure are real and he can’t bear to face if they are real and he can’t bear to ask Mickey if they’re real and he can’t fucking forgive himself for and there’s no way in Hell Mickey could forgive him and there’s no way in Hell Mickey SHOULD forgive him. 

“It’s still true,” he hears himself choke, half-whispered, half hoping Mickey is drifting back into whatever dream had him muttering about smooth skin and salty air, “I still love you Mick. I know that it doesn’t matter anymore. But it’s true.”

There’s no response and he doesn’t expect one. But it hurts like fuck when his fingers clamp down tight on Ian’s and all he does is whisper, “try to get some sleep firecrotch.”

————

The anti-depressants are taken back out of the schedule when he can’t handle the adjustment. He’d rather be on the brink of glued to his mattress or slitting his wrists than feeling that fucking nauseas. Fuck. He should have stayed on the old routine, the one that actually had him balanced for long enough to get a real job and start a stable life. The adjustments were made and the hard part was over, but his fucking body just can’t keep up with this shit. And all the doctor does is pump more shit into his system that doesn’t fucking belong there but he has to take them. He’s ordered to take them. And he knows he needs to, he knows he NEEDS to. Not just for himself. He has to get out of here. He has to be stable and on a strong routine if he stands any chance whatsoever of having something normal when he gets out. And he needs to get out.

Fuck. He’s writing Fi a letter when he hears a scuffle outside the open door. Cell doors are open during daylight hours unless it’s lockdown. There hasn’t been one of those yet. Thank fuck, because being locked in with nothing but their huge unmovable unchangeable past, and them, there’s nothing he can handle about that. 

Rising from the chair and exiting the cell. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s Mickey. Mickey and some Mexican gangbanger. New guy. Fuck.   
He doesn’t think. Just charges over. He cannot allow Mickey to get time added. He started a fucking life in Mexico and he found something resembling self-worth. He threw it all away again, just like he’s always thrown everything away when it comes to Ian. Fuck, and he never had much to begin with. But those little things, those LITTLE things were all he had. 

He doesn’t stop swinging until the guards break it up. 

And he doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t care that he ends up telling the guard that he started all of it. And he doesn’t fucking care that he’ll end up with time added. And he doesn’t fucking care, he doesn’t care that solitary is already full and they end up on lockdown instead. And when he’s allowed back in the cell, he CARES. He cares when he sees the bruises at their height and the cut on his perfect cheekbone and all he can think about is the day after he came out. How he tracked him down under the L where he was burning a couch. The couch. THE couch. How he wrapped his arms around his chest and watched the flames and smoke and wondered how the fuck his stocky little piece of trash had pushed and pulled that damn thing out of the house all by himself and wondered at how much adrenaline and pain and confusion must have been clouding his chest and his head and he had done it all FOR Ian. How he hadn’t said anything then.

And he SHOULD have.

“Nice handiwork Ali,” he smirks when Ian walks into the cell and stands awkwardly in the middle. Like he’s expecting Mick to chew his ass for getting into it. Like he’s expecting him to bitch him out for taking the blame. 

He doesn’t. He chews on his lower lip for a long damn time. Just watching Ian.

Finally he sighs, “you’re an idiot, ya know?”

“I know,” he shrugs, “but really, who would have your back when I got out anyway?”

“Jesus, fuck, Ian,” he’s chewing so hard on his lower lip, it probably tastes like blood by now. Fingers rising to grind hard into his eyes, “fuck. I don’t know anymore, man. It’s like… fuck,” grinding, grinding, grinding. Suddenly pulling back and blinking hard, quick. Getting to his feet and covering the whole two steps worth of distance between them so fucking fast that Ian doesn’t have time to process any of it before his lips are crashing against his and his hand on the back of his neck and he’s clinging so fucking tight it hurts and Ian doesn’t mind it one fucking bit. His own hand on Mickey’s face, knowing there are bruises underneath, being as gentle as possible, but he always loved TOUCHING Mickey’s face, FEELING the way his jaw works as he’s working Ian’s mouth over with his tongue and lips. 

He doesn’t pull away. Not until he hears a guard approaching in the hall, hears it through the tiny barred window of their cell door. Backing away quickly with blood rushing hard in his ears and his mind blurred and dizzied as he watches Mickey’s face. His lips already red and just a little swollen and fuck, Ian loves that look on him. His blue eyes clouded over and unable to make eye contact just yet. Not until the guard has walked by, gone past them. 

When they do rise, when they rise and knock the wind out of Ian’s lungs, they read clearly to keep his distance. The DISTANCE that is uncrossable. 

He sits. His butt lands on the desk chair that’s bolted to the concrete floor. It lands heavy, but he understands. He understands. UNDERSTANDS. 

He watches as Mickey steps backwards, lowers himself to his bunk. Sits. Quiet. Watching. Watching for a long while. Working words around in his head and on his tongue and biting them back. Ian may not know Mickey anymore, but he knows that if he’s thinking it through before he says it, then it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt. And it’s his turn. In a relationship of nothing but hurt, it’s his turn to do the hurting. HURT. With moments of love and passion and life-crushing and life-affirming instances mashed between. 

He feels it all bubble up in his throat. Choking off his air and making it so fucking hard to stay silent when he wants to fall on his knees and beg for forgiveness, beg Mickey to keep loving him, to keep believing in him, to keep, just keep, KEEP him. 

Without Mickey, Ian is not Ian. It’s always been that way. From the very first time he touched him. His life became Mickey’s. And every single decision he’s made WITHOUT Mickey, every single one is one he regrets. 

How does he say that? How does he tell him all the stupid shit he did that Mickey doesn’t even know about? How does he tell him all the ways he disrespected him and talked shit about him when he wasn’t even around? How does he tell him all the things he did to convince himself to forget, to move on, convince himself that he was capable of surviving without him? 

And fuck, he wasn’t. He was just kidding himself. Always fucking kidding himself.

“Mickey?” it’s all weak and whispered and he just wants him to look at him.

Will you at least look at me? Will you at least look at me? Will you at least LOOK at me?

“Seventy-two hour lockdown. We got time.”

Three days. Three days, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. And there’ll never be enough words. There will never be enough WORDS.


	5. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temper flaring up.

Want

Then it’s dark. But is it every really dark? And he can still taste Ian on his lips and he can hear him breathing from the bunk above him and he can feel him. He can FEEL him. Every part of him. 

But he just doesn’t fucking know anymore. Did he ever know? Did he ever really know anything? 

Did he know anything other than that chemical THING that pulled him towards Ian all the fucking time? What else was there? Really, what else was there?

Why is everything so fucking cloudy now? And why do the good things that they had hurt so fucking much? The good things that hurt too much to think about and feel and want. Fuck. He wanted Ian. He wanted him when he was fourteen and smiling at him through the glass at juvie. He wanted him when he was fifteen and fucking some idiot under the bleachers. He wanted him when he was sixteen and fucking some old dude for room service. He wanted him when he was seventeen and Mickey ended up pistol whipped because of it. And after that. 

Fuck. After that. 

And he still fucking WANTED him. And he still fucking loved him. And he was still Ian. It didn’t matter if he was high or low or up or down. He was STILL Ian.

Fuck. His fingers rise to grind into his lids. Fucking sleep. Sleep is like some fucking illusion in this place. Like some thing that just happens between moments of wake and hurt and longing and missing and aching and hating and punching and SURVIVING. And surviving. 

And FUCK. Sometimes survival just isn’t fucking worth it, is it? 

Was it worth it in Mexico? Was it worth it when he was spending Ian’s cash and sleeping in the elements on the beach, not that elements on the Caribbean beach are shit compared to sleeping in the elements in Chicago. Was it worth it when he got in with the cartel and started pushing product for some fucker who would love to cut off his fucking limbs and watch him bleed out. Fuck, at least his father was the connection in Chicago and his father would rather pistol whip him than be a fucking FATHER. But at least Mickey never felt like he was actually going to kill him. Did he?

Fuck. Was it worth it when he ended up getting in that fucking car? With a fucking kilo of coke and some pretentious buyer who owned some fancy fuckin’ resort on the ocean. And that sleek little pretentious buyer eye-fucked Mickey immediately and Mickey didn’t fucking mind it. And when he asked him if he wanted to come in and have a little look around, he fucking did. And how he ended up high out of his fucking mind and bent over a fucking glass table getting his ass eaten in a way that Ian had never fucking done. 

Fuck, but it’s not like he asked Ian to. It’s not like he LET Ian do any of that shit. It’s not like he let him. So how does he know he didn’t want to? How does he know he didn’t want to touch and feel and love and hold and caress? How does he fucking KNOW that?

Because Ian could barely be bothered with fingering his way through a warm-up. And Mickey was mostly okay with that. ‘Cause it’d be gay as fuck if he asked him for more. If he asked him to just wait, to just have some fucking patience and let him get used to him. If he just one fucking time wanted to skip the pain, but Mickey deserved the fucking pain. Mickey always deserved the fucking PAIN.

Wanting the things he shouldn’t have wanted and couldn’t have wanted. Wanting someone to fucking care. Just to care. To CARE about what he thought and what he had to say and how he felt. How he fucking felt. When he felt. It was so much easier when he felt nothing. It was so much easier when he could drink it or smoke it or snort it or shoot it all away. Back when that worked.

And now his fingers are grinding into his eyes again and he knows Ian can hear it and he knows Ian is wide awake and he knows Ian is just waiting now. Waiting for a confrontation or a fuck. A fuck. All he ever wanted from Mickey anyway. A fuck and a guy who took classes down at Malcolm X and worked at a corner store and wasn’t afraid of being walked in on with a dick in his ass. Then he wanted a guy who would LOOK at him. He wanted a guy who was gay and who loved him. Was that Mickey? Was THAT Mickey?

He wanted a guy who would stand up to his psychotic prick of a FATHER. He wanted a guy who would run out on his responsibilities and stare down the barrel of a handgun. Again. Again. Stare at a loaded handgun in his fucking face being aimed by his FATHER. 

He wanted a guy who would suck his dick whenever he wanted. And go to gay clubs and watch him strip and dance and grind on faggots. He wanted a guy who was FREE. He wanted a guy who was sick of hiding. He wanted a guy who would announce to half the fucking shitheads in the Southside that he was fuckin’ gay. 

Was that Mickey? Was any of that Mickey?

And then he didn’t fucking want Mickey. He DIDN’T want Mickey. He wanted busboys and random jerk offs outside the grocery store and the twinks at the club and the porn and the fucking PORN. 

He didn’t want a caretaker. He didn’t want a nurse. He didn’t want someone who would take care of him. He didn’t want someone who wanted him to take his pills and his B vitamins. He didn’t want someone who wanted to fucking HELP. 

He didn’t want to go down to the courthouse. He didn’t want to marry Mickey. He didn’t want to be with Mickey.

THIS ISN’T ME ANYMORE.

And fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

————

Then there’s push-ups and squats and crunches and lunges and every single fucking thing they can do in this tiny fucking space to work out. Because there ain’t much else to fucking do.

Then there’s, “you want my Jello?”

And it’s the fucking green stuff and Ian knows that’s Mick’s favorite and there’s, “fuck you I want your Jello.”

The stupid fucking smile that Mickey fucking hates and he hates how much he fucking missed it, as he slides it over the floor towards Mickey where they’re fucking sitting cross-legged staring at the door like they’re s’posed to when it’s chow time on lockdown and he fucking wonders what would happen if he brought the damn tray to his bunk and fucking ate it there. He wonders if any of the guards actually really truly have the fucking balls to tase him. It might make him feel fuckin’ alive. It might make him feel something other than how much he’s begun to fucking HATE himself for this.

For this. For all of this. And all of him. All of that ginger fucker who’s still fucking smiling even when he’s watching his own plate like it’ll magically turn into a fucking White Castle or some fuck. 

“Maybe we could go to dinner sometime,” he tells his plate instead of Mickey, “you know? When we get out? We could go, um…”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t fucking say it. Don’t fucking say Sizzler. Don’t fucking say a real date. Fuck you with your real date,” and it fucking catches in his throat and sticks there. Right there behind all the other things that are always stuck in his fucking throat and he can’t speak and he can’t find words and maybe there AREN’T words anyway and he’s just fucking kidding himself thinking that there ever will be. 

And the stupid fucker doesn’t flinch or blink or move. But the fucking smile fades. And Mickey fucking hates himself for it. He fucking hates himself. He HATES himself for it. And he wants to stab himself in the fucking eye with his fucking fork because now it’s right there. It’s right fucking there. SURE MICK, I’LL WAIT. 

But it doesn’t stick in his throat this time and it doesn’t burn behind his eyes and it doesn’t lodge itself in his chest. No. Not this time. This time it drips. It drips from his fucking eyes and down his cheeks and onto his fucking plate and the fork is gripped so tight in his hand that his knuckles are white and his lip is trembling and he’s going to hit something. And the closest fucking SOMETHING is the desk chair. 

And he’s going to do it again. But those stupid long fingers grip down hard on his wrist and the other arm is suddenly wrapped around his chest and his stupid voice is whispering in his ear and he can barely hear him over all the rushing and burning and aching and hating and loving and fucking LOVING that he can’t fucking stop, “don’t Mick. Please, don’t, please, please,” his fucking face is tucked into Mickey’s neck and he’s holding so fucking tight to Mickey’s wrist that his fingers are going numb or they’re going numb from hitting the fucking chair and he can feel the liquid dripping off his fingers and it’s warm and cold and slimy and sticky and it’s pooling up by Ian’s stupid hand too. And it’s taking every single muscle in Ian’s body to hold his arm back and he can feel that. He can FEEL that in the way he’s breathing and the way he feels so fucking taut against his back and his side and his neck and his arm. And how the fuck can he feel him around his body? Around his entire fucking body. 

It’s all liquid. It’s all fluid. It’s water and blood. 

It’s salt and metal. And it’s dripping off him and over him and he can’t fucking stop it. 

And whatever fucking noise is coming out of his mouth. And whatever fucking things are rolling out of his body and out of mind and out of his hand and out of his face and he can’t fucking see or speak or breathe or think or feel or any of it. Any of it. ANY of it. 

The only thing. The one thing left. The ONLY thing is Ian’s voice, “please,” and, “please,” and more fucking, “please."


	6. Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SEX
> 
> Heh, like the requires a warning. Pshh.

Care

“Please,” it’s barely whispering out of his mouth, his arms around Mickey’s chest, hand wrapped tight around his wrist when he finally stops resisting and lets Ian fold it into his body. Into his chest, against his heart, “please,” again. Against his neck, his nose mashed into his hair and it’s happening. It’s all happening. Every single moment, every single instance, every single memory and every single part of the future is CRASHING around him in nothing more than cinderblock and plexiglass and steel bars. 

He’s choking and gasping, Ian’s not sure if he’s going to punch his way out of here or scream or stab himself with his fork. He’s not sure if he’s going to break Ian’s face or have a boxing match with the cinderblock until his hands are nothing more than shattered bones, broken skin, and blood smeared on the wall. 

Fighting him off his back, shrugging and elbowing and reeling his head back finally to dislodge him. When he lets him go he’s not punching or kicking or screaming. He’s ripping Ian’s clothes off. And his face is buried in Ian’s neck and he’s tearing his own clothes off as the blood from his knuckles splashes on the floor. 

And Ian’s not fucking sure what’s happening when he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t pull his boxers down and tell him to get on him, he doesn’t arch his back and push his ass against Ian. Instead he shoves Ian. He shoves him towards the ground where the food trays are and the food is spilled and the blood is smeared and he’s on his hands and knees and he’s not fighting it. He’s NOT fighting it. 

He’s not fighting it because how many times has Mickey been the one in this position? And how many times has Ian just spit in his hand and pressed into his ass? And how many times has Mickey’s fist clenched and smashed on the ground or the mattress or the fence or the shelf or the bleachers? 

And how many times has he shoved Mickey against a box in the storage room or a bed or a dresser or a table or a fucking boat? How many times has he gripped his fingers and held his arms down? 

And how many times did he convince himself that Mickey wanted it that way? That Mickey LIKED it that way? That Mickey liked it rough and hard and quick?

Because if Mickey wanted to, he could shove Ian away. Or break his fucking jaw. Or anything, anything to make him see that he didn’t want it that way. He didn’t want the PAIN with the pleasure. He didn’t want it hard and quick and pulling up their pants and walking away.   
But he’s not. He’s not shoving in. His hands are clenched down so hard on the knobs of Ian’s pelvis that there’s certain to be finger shaped bruises there. But he’s not shoving in. He’s not pressing in. He’s not jamming himself inside Ian. 

His lips are warm and his tongue is wet and it’s trailing down Ian’s asscrack and it’s not stopping until it meets his balls and then it trails back up and he’s taking his sweet fucking time for someone who’s in a fucking prison cell where any moment a guard could walk by and look in the window to see if they’re done with their meal. Any moment the door could open and the trays could be collected. Any moment the alarm could go off and every single door on the block could open and lockdown could be over. They could decide it doesn’t need to be a full seventy-two hours. 

His tongue is doing things Ian didn’t know a tongue was capable of. And his left hand, the one that isn’t bloody and busted, it’s sliding across Ian’s asscheek and when a finger passes his threshold it’s slippery with spit and snot and tears and whatever else is on Mickey’s face and hands and lips. And he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking CARE. 

Spots are rising and his eyes are forced shut and his breath is being dictated by Mickey’s rhythm and he feels himself push back into his hand and his mouth and Mickey’s fingers tighten around his hip and he forces himself not to flinch at the pressure under his strong grip.   
And yeah, this is fucking prison and if hand-shaped bruises are circling his pelvis in the fucking showers then everyone will know he’s someone’s bitch and he doesn’t fucking care right now. He doesn’t fucking care. 

And he doesn’t care when Mickey is pressing his dick in his ass and it fucking burns like hell but he stays still for a minute and he waits. Ian takes a deep breath and Mickey rocks his pelvis against his ass and his right hand is fisted up and pressed against the small of his back and his left hand is still clamped so fucking tight at his hip. 

The rocking stays slow and he can hear his breath still choked and gasping. He can feel the tension and anger and fear still rolling around like a fucking tornado in their cell. But it’s NOT overtaking Mickey’s body. The more he rocks, the more Ian feels like the world is disappearing around him. The cement under his knees and his elbows, his face hidden in his hands and his breath coming out in ragged gasps of pleasure. And he’s never felt this. He’s never felt this. THIS.

Mickey’s fist opens on his back, his palm flattens against his flesh and everything explodes inside his closed eyelids. Everything swirls and comes together and breaks apart and is sent hurling through the blackness in his lids. His body is going limp and Mickey’s hands are coming around his hips to meet his stomach and keep his ass in the air. Three quick pulses of thrusts and he’s letting go. 

He’s letting Ian slide into a puddle on the floor and he’s backing away. Ian’s breath is caught and his heart is in his throat and he’s WISHING he was on a mattress and he could just close his eyes and pass out. His ears are buzzing and his eyes are blurry. 

He lives in a world that is foggy and far away but he can FEEL Mickey’s hand sliding up his back, meeting his shoulder and tapping, “put your clothes on,” it’s gentle but demanding.

And Ian knows why. He KNOWS why. He knows.

————

He won’t look at him. Not while they clean up the food trays and bowls and plates and forks. Not while they clean up the jizz and the blood. Not while he takes his hand and examines the split and wonders how the hell to stop the bleeding without having to call for a guard who’ll take Mickey away. He’ll take him to the infirmary. 

He needs stitches but he can’t leave. He can’t LEAVE. He can’t go away. He can’t GO away from Ian. 

He rips a long strip off his sheet, tearing as many smaller pieces as he needs, washing the wound with soap and water and telling Mickey with a sigh as he ties the make-shift bandaging down, “I guess that makes me your bitch, huh?”

“Only if you didn’t like it.”

He says it in that nonchalant Mickey way that most anyone else would believe. But if there is one thing and one thing only that hasn’t changed about Mickey. It’s how much he fucking CARES.

Ian takes a gentle grip on his chin, forcing his eye contact, “I’ll be your bottom any day.”

His gorgeous eyes roll but not before a relieved expression tugs at his lips, “fuckever Iceman.”

“I feel the need, the need for speed,” dipping into his lips before he can shake his grip off his chin. 

Lingering. Lingering for so long. But it’ll NEVER be long enough. 

————

“What’s with the blood Milkovich?” 

He shrugs, “you look wonderful tonight Clapton.”

Ian snickers, he can’t help it. Every fucking time. Clapton isn’t bad for a guard. And he kind of likes Mickey. Even though all Mickey does when he’s around is quote Clapton lyrics. Ian’s never even heard half of them, but he always knows when he’s doing it because of the eyebrow positioning.

“Need med?”

“Nah.”

“Do I need to know what happened?”

“‘They picked me up, put me in the county jail’…” he starts singing with a smirk on his pretty lips. 

“Alright, alright. Gallagher,” motioning with his hand for Ian to step forward. Out on the catwalk is the nurse with his nightly dose. Normally it’s cafeteria then infirmary for meds. On lockdown, the meds come to the prisoner. 

Chasing them down, he knows the routine. Opening his mouth for her to inspect his cheeks. His tongue. Make sure they’re down the hatch. 

The nod, backing into the cell, the door closes, and they’re alone again. 

Again. But this time. This time. This TIME. It feels different. Not the same, not like it used to, not like that. But different. 

“‘Now I’m in prison, I’ve almost done my time. Now I’m in prison, I’ve almost done my time,’” he’s still going. 

Fuck, if it doesn’t make Ian smile like an idiot when his glossy eyes land on his.

“How do you even know so many Eric Clapton songs?” he finally wonders when Mickey stops singing.

He shrugs, “guy’s kind of a pussy, but he ain’t bad on guitar.”

“Wasn’t your thing always rock and metal?”

Shrugging again, “maybe. Maybe not.”

“What’s that even mean?”

“Means I was always so fuckin’ busy bein’ what everyone else wanted me to be,” he trails off as his eyes linger on Ian and that little twinkle that had been on his irises goes out before the contact flits away and he moves across the cell to lay down on his bunk. 

Fuck, he wants to holler at him, tell him to keep talking, to just fucking SAY it, to tell Ian whatever it is he’s thinking about because Ian can’t read his fucking mind. But Mickey is Mickey and he’s just finally figured out something for himself, that he can be himself, and if Ian starts telling him now to do the things he doesn’t want to do and be the things he doesn’t want to be then he’s just as bad as everyone else who wanted Mickey to be the things he WASN’T.

Instead, “what’s your favorite song?”

“Like ever?” his head turns, eyes landing on Ian again and it feels like a strange victory as he lowers himself to sit on the desk chair, “or like current? Or like genre-wise?”

He shrugs, watching him with a smile he can’t stifle and doesn’t want to stifle, “any of that. All of that. You know what? We’ve got nothing but time Mick. And maybe by the time I get paroled in another year or so, I want to know everything about you. Why the fuck not?”

He rolls it around on his tongue for a minute while he studies Ian’s face. Jesus fuck, how is it that he’s even more beautiful after he had a face-full of tears and snot and whatever the fuck else made its way there in the last hour? 

Finally deciding, “why the fuck not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, sexual desires cannot be the cornerstone of a long lasting healthy relationship. So we'll see where they take things from here. 
> 
> I'm not going to argue any story choices. Like I said, if you want my canon fill-ins to dive deeper into Ian's mindset, you can find them in Right There Next To You. But when I take Ian strictly with what canon gave me, I'm not a big fan by about halfway through S6. Or maybe early in S6, I can never remember. 
> 
> The whole story is written out. And they'll figure their shit out. They always do. Or I always force them to anyway :)


	7. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't quite know how to warn this chapter. 
> 
> WARNING: There will be some style of retribution from the cartel. I'm not detailing the violence, but head's up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to get this whole work posted by the end of the week. I'm having a weird push/pull thing happening with it. It's been sitting completed on my desktop for a few weeks, maybe more, I'm not even sure, and I kept sitting on it because it seems like since the S10 news most everyone just wants light, easy, fluffy, unrealistic prison stuff... I don't. Sure, they deserve happiness, but is happiness a relationship where so much trust has been broken (in both directions) and then they're left behind bars to work it out? In an atmosphere that is violent and uneasy and there's no way in hell they can truly sort out their shit and move on. It's not a place to be openly gay - I don't care how the show presents it, and I don't know what type of facility Beckman is supposed to even be, regardless, they will not be skipping down the hallway in prison holding hands...
> 
> I'm also having some push/pull because I'm not diving into the canon fill-ins like I normally do and really digging into their mindsets for some of the most important moments. I didn't feel like rewriting any of those, and the pace and sort of weird time slipping and fuzziness seems like something I couldn't keep up for a work long enough to really give those things justice. But the atmosphere felt right for prison. 
> 
> Um, there was something else... and... now it's gone. Oh well.

Lust

So it’s music and movies and tv shows and video games and sports and athletes and cars and guns and seasons. It’s everything. It’s things they used to know and they stopped knowing at some point or stopped caring at some point or never knew at all. And it’s good and it’s so fucking good. To just fucking talk. Talk about shit that don’t matter and maybe it never mattered but maybe it ALWAYS mattered and they just had too many things stacked against them and around them and above and below and all over the fucking place to be able to just talk about the shit that didn’t matter. 

They ain’t got fuck else to do.

And time starts moving. It actually starts moving. It’s moving like time on the outside. Almost. It’s almost like living again. It’s almost like breathing again. It’s almost like freedom. 

And then it’s, “this place ain’t so bad, ya know? I mean, not like…”

And there’s that. And there’s that. THAT. 

It was too hard seeing you through the glass.

THAT.

He trails off into the darkness of their cell. Where Ian is laying on his top bunk, wide awake and Mickey is laying on his bottom bunk, wide awake. And it’s been weeks or maybe a month since that time they fucked. And yeah, it felt good. It felt good. And Ian felt GOOD. Fuck, he felt good. And yeah, Mickey wants it again. He wants it all the fucking time. And sometimes now when he dreams the dreams that make him wake up with a raging hard dick in his hand, sometimes the dreams include Ian. Sometimes he’s got top and sometimes bottom. And it doesn’t matter, they both make his dick fucking hard and needy. 

But not now. Not now. Not here. Not now. Not when there’s still so much. And there’s STILL so much.

And then he’s outside in the middle of fucking winter freezing his fucking balls off, watching Ian playing ball with some of the guys. And he knows they’re just some of the guys. And he knows Ian’s eyes haven’t wandered. But Mickey has a visitor. And he’s sleek and sexy and his voice is satin and his hands are silk. And it takes everything in his fucking body not to touch him. And he feels Ian’s eyes on him. And he knows. He fucking knows. 

Eddie’s fucking smilin’. And he’s talking about the resort and about how Mickey is always welcome back. And he’s ALWAYS welcome back. He knows that’s the truth. Fuck, he wants it. He wants it. Doesn’t he? 

Doesn’t he?

His eyes rise and find Ian immediately. Watching him for a moment while he’s not watching Mickey. Fuck. If he could believe it. If he could believe all of it. Any of it. If he could believe that he’d stay on his meds and he’d stay stable and he’d want to and he’d want Mickey and he’d want a life with Mickey and he’d want to. He’d WANT to. 

Can he believe it? Even from this fucking distance when those green eyes rise and lock on, he can see the doubt. The doubt. DOUBT.

Fuck.

————

Then it’s, “Mick?” all soft and whisper-like, it’s timid and shy and it’s all the fucking things Ian never was when they were alone together.

“Hmm?” watching his weight shift above him.

Nothing. For so fucking long that he gets up. He stands beside the bunk and waits. Waits for his head to turn. For him to look at him. At least look at me. LOOK at me, “nothing. Never-mind. You didn’t have to get up. That was…”

“Spit it out Mumbles,” his hand falls to Ian’s arm. 

And like his fucking body can’t resist Mickey’s touch even when his mind wants to, he rolls up to his shoulder, and his fingers slide over Mickey’s and he wonders, “do you, um, have a boyfriend or something?”

“Uh, Eddie?”

“That his name?”

“No,” he snorts, “I mean, no that’s… yes, that’s his name. No, I don’t have a boyfriend. Who the fuck has a boyfriend on the outside when they’re on the inside?” and it BURNS. 

It burns from Mickey’s hand into Ian’s arm and he nearly yelps when he lets go and steps back. And he must look like he’s just been shocked and Ian’s eyebrows furl with concern.

Sure Mick, I’ll wait.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, thumbing his nose and dropping to his bunk. Away from those eyes. Away from that look. Away from the questions and the wondering and the concern. The fucking concern. Like he was so concerned for Mickey while he was getting stable and moving on and bottoming and having a fucking boyfriend and THIS ISN’T ME ANYMORE. Like he was so concerned about him dying behind bars, dying a slow fucking death behind bars in a fucking prison full of murderers and rapists and bangers and hard time fuckers who do hard time because they did hard things and have become HARD men. Like he was so concerned for Mickey when Mickey was seducing a fucking guard, when he was fucking the hell out of her and promising he loved her and making her come and come and keep fucking coming because how the fuck else was he supposed to get out. Get out and get to Ian. Ian who had MOVED ON. 

Moved on.

And he had never in his entire stupid life felt so fucking stupid. And he had never in his fucking life full of rejection felt so REJECTED. And it was nothing. It was nothing more than THIS ISN’T ME ANYMORE.

He doesn’t see it when the weight above him shifts. He doesn’t see it because his fingers are already grinding himself into blindness and he doesn’t see it when he’s leaning over him and he doesn’t see it when he’s laying down beside him and he’s sliding a hand over the side of his face and through his hair and he’s bringing his head towards his face and he’s breathing so fucking soft and so fucking slow and he’s whispering, “I’m sorry Mick. I’m so fucking sorry. Of all the things I’ve done that I wish I had never done, all the stupid fucking shit that I’ve done to hurt you, it was that. It was never visiting, it was never accepting your calls, it was never writing, it was pretending you didn’t exist; that I regret the most,” and his voice is breaking off and he’s pulling Mickey’s body in closer to his and his thumb has found it’s way under Mickey’s palm and it’s wiping the tears that are falling and he’s not even sure HOW they’ve begun to fall and how Ian even knew but he can feel them. He can FEEL them coming from Ian’s eyes too. And trailing through his hair. 

“There are so many things that I want to apologize for. And so many things that I wish I had never done. And I don’t want you to forgive me. I don’t. I don’t deserve forgiveness until I can prove to you that I still love you. That I never stopped loving you. Until I can prove to you that you are worth more than any other thing in my life, any thing in this fucking world. You don’t have to love me back, but I love you. I love you. I’m going to keep saying it. And I’m going to keep meaning it. And I’m going to keep showing that I can treat you right. But please do not forgive me. Not until I truly deserve it.”

He doesn’t speak. He can’t speak. But his stupid body moves. It turns to face him and he tucks his head into his chest and he lets him wrap his arms around him and he lets him rub his back and he lets him shove his stupid bony knee between his and he lets him press his lower back until there’s no space whatsoever between them. And he stays.

He stays there. STAYS. 

And when he wakes up with a start, the same start, the same fucking start he’s always woken with; he’s still there. His eyes are open and his lips are turned into a gentle smile and he doesn’t give him a weird look or make a joke or rib him for still being such a fuckin’ spazz first thing in the morning. He just fucking SMILES at him. The smile contacts his forehead and he fucking breathes as he watches him leave the bunk. He watches him stand in the middle of the cell and stretch with a yawn before he stands at the toilet and lets loose a stream of piss with a grunt.

————

And then there’s that day in the Spring that she’s sitting at the table across from him with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in a warning whisper of, “you gotta watch your back in there pretty boy. Alvarez got a half a mil reward for whoever can poke the most holes into you,” and she leans back when the guard takes a few steps closer and she laughs a fake laugh that’s kinda believable and says, “then the sleek little fuck says ‘got you’, like he meant to do it all along. Like I was going to believe that shit,” she rolls her eyes and smiles at him until the guard passes to the next table, “when it comes to that kind of money, you can’t trust a single fucking soul,” her eyebrows are high on her forehead while she stares at him.

The fuckin’ facility ain’t nothing like real prison, and yeah he’s got some connections from previous stays in juvie and he’s got some street connections and he’s got her connections and he’s got some fuckin’ protection that Eddie’s payin’ for ‘cause takin’ down some Alvarez fucks only serves his purpose and brings more eager tourists to his place when they hear that cartel influence is decreasing in the area. But it ain’t like it’ll ever go away. Cut the fuckin’ head off the snake and all that shit.

“Got it,” he sighs. And his stomach clamps ‘cause whatever he did to get himself locked up again, well he’s ready for the repercussions of that, but he ain’t ready for that shit to come DOWN on Ian. 

And it does. And it DOES. And it fucking does. And he’s not ready for that.

————

There’s blood. Blood. There’s so much BLOOD. 

“What the fuck happened?” he barely breathes, but he can’t act like this is the knife to his heart, he can’t openly show that this is pain, that this is FEAR, that if Ian is dead, then this is DEATH. 

The cocky, shithead guard that Mickey can’t fucking stand steps in front of him, blocking his entrance into the blood stained cell, “moving you for a few nights Milkovich.”

“That’s fuckin’ fine, but what the fuck happened? Where’s Gallagher?”

He shrugs, arms crossed over his barrel chest, “infirmary, ambulance, hospital, morgue? Take your pick.”

“Take my…” breathe. Don’t get riled up in front of anyone. Whoever did this, fuck, they’ll pay, “okay. Well,” he takes a step back, panic blind but breathing, “where am I movin’?”

————

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Pacing and pacing and barely breathing. And wondering and hurting and hoping and panicking. And more fucking panicking. And pacing. And not sleeping. And not eating. And keeping both eyes open at all times. And the knot in his stomach is permanent. And the only guard who would tell him what’s up with Ian is on vacation. And he can’t just call Fiona or any of the other Gallaghers, ‘cause if Ian’s dead or nearly dead or alone and fuckin’ afraid in some hospital room, then it’s Mickey’s fault. It’s Mickey’s FAULT. Mickey’s. And he knows that. He’ll always KNOW that.

It’s days or weeks or months and he’s not sure and he’s not breathing anymore and he hasn’t even closed his eyes to blink and he’s sharpening shivs and he’s waiting. And he’s waiting. WAITING. The seconds have become minutes have become hours have become days and he’s still waiting. 

And then it’s, “any word on Gallagher?”

And it’s a strange knowing type look and a shrug, a lowered voice, “touch and go there for awhile, but he’s been stable for a few days. He’ll be back here in no time.”

“And what about the shitheads that did it?”

“Sounds like there was a hit out,” Clapton is still talking all low and secretive, “they’ve been transferred to a different facility. Can’t say exactly what the hit was, but,” he sighs, looking Mickey over with this weird fucking understanding on his face, “you should try to sleep at some point. I’ve got night duty,” it’s reassuring and it’s weirdly protective and Mickey’s not sure if it’s ‘cause he actually thinks Mickey is funny or maybe he’s on Eddie’s payroll or maybe he actually gives a fuck about his job. Fuck knows anyway. 

————

Then it’s, “Mickey, I’m not supposed to talk to you, Fiona and Lip are saying all this was probably your fault and…”

“I know, but Debbie, would you please just tell me how he is?”

She owes him. She owes Mickey. She OWES him. For Sammi, fucking Sammi, fuck Sammi.

Her sigh is heavy, but not from worry, just from being a Gallagher, “he’s going to be fine. Good enough?”

“No. Debbie, you gotta tell me for real. For real, is he okay?”

“Like stable? Or what? The first time he woke up from surgery he tried pulling out all the tubes and they had to sedate him again. The second time, they took out the breathing thingy and he asked about you. He sounded like a damn child asking, over and over, about you.”

“What’s his room number?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No. Mickey, I can’t just…”

“Yes. You can. Tell him I’ll call, but you gotta get Fiona and Lip out of the room.”

“Fuck, Mickey, I can’t…”

“Yes you fucking can Debbie. And you know exactly fucking why you can.”

“Okay. Fine.”

It was his choice. It was his choice, his choice to take the full rap for Sammi. It was his choice to keep her innocent face and her panic attacks and her young life out of that shit. It was his choice to take full responsibility. And he’ll never bring it up again. He made the RIGHT choice. He knows that. He’ll always know that. 

And now, they’re even.

————

“Mickey?” and all the breath he’s been holding for however many minutes or hours or days or months or years, exits in one giant exhale. Debbie answered the room phone, and she told him he had maybe two minutes. 

“Yeah, yeah firecrotch, it’s me,” and it’s thick and he has to choke it down. He’s standing at a prison block of phones and people can overhear him. And all this shit is recorded for who knows why and when they’ll need it to use against someone. Every word, “how, you, uh,” his fingers rise to grind into his eyes, “feelin’?”

“I’m okay. Prison food is better than this shit.”

And he can see the dopey smile on his face and he can feel the idiot trying to cut tension with his look-on-the-bright-side bullshit and it works. It WORKS. It’s always worked. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They put me on a liquid diet. I can’t even tell what the hell it’s supposed to be. Says something about beef and mashed potatoes. But it’s all just brown and runny and fucking gross. Reminds of that shit they fed us in the group home. Shit, it’s worse than that.”

Chatty little bastard, Mickey feels himself smile. He SMILES. Because he knows Ian is smiling. And that’s all that matters.

————

When he lays down on his bunk that night, he realizes it. He realizes two things. TWO things. 

HE WILL NEVER STOP LOVING IAN.

And Ian just mentioned the group home without MIckey’s stomach turning into barbed wire. And fuck, maybe, maybe someday not so far away from now, maybe he’ll be able to think of that night. Of that night on the couch and that smile. That smile while he watched Mickey, like Mickey didn’t know he was throwing sideways glances at him all fucking night. Like Mickey didn’t know he was taking every single opportunity to linger on his face when Mickey pretended not to notice. 

The night before the real world came crashing back in with a scowl. With shouts and fists and blood. With a pistol and whore. The real world. The REAL world. Mickey’s world. The only one he’s ever known, the only one he could never outrun. Even on the beaches in Mexico. Even in that fancy fuckin’ resort with his soft hands traveling every instance of Mickey’s flesh. Even with her sparkling eyes on the balcony handing him a joint. Even with the heat of the sun and the heat of a human touch and the heat of the high and the heat of lust. 

But there’s a big fuckin’ different between LUST and LOVE. Isn’t there?


	8. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the cell.

Love

He’s still sore and stiff and wondering how long it’ll take before his body adjusts to having an organ removed and how long it’ll take for the stitches and staples to stop bothering him. And he’s wondering if he can do this, if he can do all of this, if he CAN do it by himself. And behind bars. If he can be here, still, if he can be in the cell with Mickey and all of their failings and all of the things they should talk about and all of the things they should say. But all of the things they won’t ever talk about and all of the things they CAN’T say. And they could never SAY. But it never mattered before. Because those things could all be said with a look or a touch or a kiss or an embrace.

Embrace. An embrace that was the only thing keeping him in his fucking skin when all he wanted to to was rip it off and let the mania burn his insides until he was nothing but clean white bones on scorched Earth.

It was late. By the time they discharged him and transported him and he went through intake again and he checked in at the infirmary and Margie checked him over and agreed with the hospital’s doctors that he was okay to go back to his cell and do his normal prison scheduled activities as long as he felt okay. As long as he took it easy and as long as he told a guard as soon as something felt OFF or UNCOMFORTABLE. She told him to rest and hydrate and take it easy and check in again first thing in the morning. 

And he’s been lying on his side watching the door. The open cell door. Prisoners walking past. Guards walking past. Clapton keeps poking his head in the door every time he walks by. Ian nods at him and he continues his route. Piper is the first of the guys to stop and check in. The rumor is that he killed his step mother with a lead pipe when he was seven. He’ll neither confirm nor deny it. Either way, he doesn’t have access to a lead pipe here, and he’s not that bad of a guy. As bad guys go.

The pull of painkillers and meds and his body’s need for healing wins before Mickey comes in. But he feels him. He feels him sit on the edge of the mattress. Through the fog and the haze and the blur, he feels his hand. He feels his FUCK fingers sliding through the hair at his temple and resting there. He feels his body beside his hip, the weight and the warmth of it. He feels the presence. His presence. Mickey’s PRESENCE. And it feels like home. It feels like the place he wants to spend the rest of his life. It feels like the protection and the heat and the heart that he’s ALWAYS known. 

It brings him just close enough to the surface to hear his voice, thick and broken, whispering against his mouth, “I love you,” right before his weight shifts and sleep stifles every part of wake. 

————

When wake does come seeping back in, it’s slow. It’s groggy and foggy and he feels like he’s been out walking on the moon. Each blink clears a little more. A figure. A stocky little figure coming into focus. A stocky, dark-haired figure laying on the concrete prison cell floor with his back to Ian. His front to the door. A shiv tucked in his hand. Asleep, but ready. 

He feels a lazy smile rising on his face as every single detail of that man starts coming into focus. Fuck, if he had been here when those assholes came in, he would have died protecting Ian. He would have DIED just to give Ian life. Just to be a shield. Sure, maybe they were coming for Mick in the first place. Maybe they were trying to collect on a bounty. Maybe they were placed by the cartel. Ian doesn’t know. They didn’t say. He just felt the first stab in kidney and knew. He knew, he KNEW he wasn’t done living. Not yet. Not now. Not when so much is left unsaid and undone and unappreciated. 

As though his gaze lingering on Mickey’s luminescent flesh had reached out and caressed him, his body jolts to life. Right back to the world of wake like there was never an interlude of sleep. Sitting up in the middle of the room with a grunt, eye rub. To his feet, stretch, yawn, fingers through Ian’s hair, tender smile on his face. He ducks to put the shiv back in it’s hiding place between the bed and wall, that place where he chipped away some cinderblock, just enough to hide a weapon. Or two. Maybe three by now. 

He doesn’t say it, he doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t have to SAY anything. His gaze lingers on Ian for a long moment, studying his face, locking onto his eyes like he can read every single thought through that watery surface. He doesn’t apologize for bringing cartel retribution on them both, he doesn’t need to. It wasn’t his CHOICE. He wasn’t the first domino in the line of dominoes that put them both here behind bars with queer-haters and gangbangers and arsonists and rapists and fuck, murderers. Rehabbed and not. Reformed and not. Racists and sexists and shitheads. They’re all here. And thank fucking Christ this is not the big house where every single piece of human scum exists together in one giant melting pot of scum. This isn’t like the place where Mickey was locked up before, this is well-staffed and well-guarded and well-cleaned and the freedoms here to have family visits. At least this is a lower level of scumbags and shitheads. These are the lesser crimes and the lesser offenses and most of them are here after pleading insanity or momentary insanity and most of them have regulated meds and psychiatrist visits. It’s not like that place, that place that Ian stared numbly through the glass at Mickey and his proclamation of love. His proclamation of permanent and unfaltering LOVE. Right there, right on his chest. And fuck only knows what kind of fag beatings he caught for that in a place like that.

He watches as Mickey winces, like he’s reading Ian’s thoughts, like he’s remembering all the times he was the one on the concrete floor thinking he was dying. He was the one getting kicked and hit and punched and stomped just for having a dude’s name on his chest. A dude who couldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t even look at him. Couldn’t LOOK at him.

“You, uh,” his thumb rises, running itself across his lower lip, “need…”

You. You are all I need. You are all I’ve ever needed. 

He feels himself smile weakly, “looks like I got bottom for awhile. Guess you’re on top.”

It’s enough, just barely enough, only enough. To cut some tension. To slice right through some of the things they should be SAYING or DOING or WANTING to do. 

Not here.

Just enough to make his eyes sting, just enough to make his hands rise to heel into his eyes, just enough to make his breath shake.

“I’m okay Mick. And it’s not your fault. Okay? I got myself locked up. And consequences behind bars are the same no matter who my cellmate is. This had nothing to do with you. Maybe they were just Gay Jesus haters.”

He wishes he had the energy to sit up, to reach for him. He wishes they were out in the open air, in freedom, in a place where they could love openly and always. He wishes he could do something, anything to PROVE to Mickey that he’ll take every single thing that comes with loving him. He’ll take it a million times over. He’ll take it all because Mickey always took it all. Mickey ALWAYS took everything Ian had to offer. All the good and all the bad. And he always came back for more. 

“Besides, no one needs two kidneys anyway. It’s one less organ I have to worry about a family member wanting to pawn off me in the future.”

The response is somewhere between a sigh, a sob, and a laugh. And that’s okay. That’s OKAY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of like to think that is was the guys that were after Mickey, and that Ian knows that, but he's never going to tell because he knows that kind of guilt would destroy Mickey.


	9. Shattering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mickey. You are my favorite fictional character ever.

Shattering

It’s sleeping on the concrete and keeping his eyes open in the darkness and keeping his ears open to make sure Ian is still breathing and keeping his mind open to be certain he’s still here and he’s STILL here. And he can still feel him and smell him and he can’t touch him. He can’t touch him because if he does, it’ll be an avalanche. It’ll be an avalanche of all the things. ALL the things. And they can’t do that. Not here.

So it’s taking him by the elbow when he gets to his feet. It’s walking beside him, close enough to touch his arm when they swing past each other, close enough that he can put a hand on Mickey’s shoulder if he needs the support. It’s patting his back when he’s gagging and fighting away nausea from whatever drugs and painkillers and plain old pain are coursing through his system. It’s waiting. It’s doing laundry duty while he’s at the infirmary as a patient and as a paper sorter. While he’s doing physical therapy with Large Marge. It’s waiting while he’s slowly making his way back to their cell at the end of every day. And it’s waiting while he barely makes it to the bottom bunk and collapses. Exhausted and achy, and insisting he’s okay. And reminding Mickey, reminding him, REMINDING him that it’s not his fault. 

And Mickey wishes he could believe that. He wishes he could believe any of this wasn’t his fault. Any of it. There are a million reasons and a million times he SHOULD have let Ian walk out and never come back, he should have pushed him away harder and faster and never let him hold his fucking hand in the Kash N Grab. He never should have kissed him and he never should have told him, never should have told him that he loved him. 

If he hadn’t. If he hadn’t told him. HADN’T said a fucking word or done a fucking thing worth doing, they’d never have been here. If he’d never let him leave for the Army back when he was starting to show signs of his disorder, if he hadn’t let him leave then. If the disorder had come into full swing at home, at HOME instead of in the Army. If he had seen it, if he had seen it, if he had SEEN it at the very first sign. 

If he had pushed Ian away as soon as his hand was on the glass and he was saying all shy and fucking adorable, barely able to meet Mickey’s eyes through the glass, ‘I miss you’, if Mickey had shoved him away then, if he had never let him fall, if he had never let him LOVE Mickey. If he never kicked the faggot straight under the bleachers and let Ian lean his face against the back of his neck. 

If he had never let him LOVE. If he had never let him fall for a piece of fucked-for-life trash. If he had never been there that day. That day that Mickey’s life of fists and blood and pain pistol-whipped them both in the face. If he hadn’t been there. If he hadn’t seen that. If he hadn’t felt it. If he hadn’t felt it through Mickey’s eyes and through his silent pleading. If he hadn’t seen it, if Mickey had never LOOKED at him. 

Fuck. His hand is shaking when it reaches out to smooth across the orange hair that’s grown back in. Sliding gently, barely lingering before he gets to his feet. Gets his weapons and paces. Like a tiger in a cage. Paces and waits to pounce. Paces and waits. And this time, this time when HIS life comes crashing in on THEM with fists and shivs and shouts, this time he’ll be ready. If it’s tonight or tomorrow or next week or next month, he’ll be waiting.

————

“Mick,” it’s whisper soft and so close to his face. It’s so far away and it’s a shout. It’s nowhere and it’s everywhere, “Mick, hey,” it’s gentle and it’s harsh. It’s kind and it’s cruel, “hey,” it’s touching his arm and gripping his heart, “time to get up,” fuck, it’s so far away. 

“Mick,” shit. It’s on him. It’s all over him. It’s drunk and it’s stumbling and it’s kicking and it’s punching and it’s shouting and it’s dragging him out of bed at night and it’s calling a whore over and it’s steel on bone and his arms come up to block his face, but it never mattered. It NEVER mattered. 

Panic blind and ready for a fight. Always. Always ready for a fight. ALWAYS.

“Mick,” it’s tentative now, and the hand on his arm is gone. All that’s left is a bed of smoldering coals, “it’s me. It’s Ian. You’re alright.”

It’s blinking into focus and it’s blurring away again. It’s Ian and it’s Terry, it’s Ian and it’s Alvarez, it’s Ian and it’s Eduardo, it’s Ian and it’s Lou, it’s Ian and it’s Deran, it’s Ian and it’s that Neo-Nazi motherfucker from the last joint, it’s Ian and it’s Mandy. And then it’s just Ian.

It’s those wide green eyes that used to be so innocent and so caring and so gentle. It’s a blank stare from the other side of the glass. It’s a kiss at the border. It’s a strong affirmation that THIS ISN’T ME ANYMORE.

And it’s the end. It’s the END all over again. And it’s his lips, his passionate kisses that Mickey could never stop craving once he’d had the very first one. And it’s his smile, that same fucking smile that Mickey couldn’t bear to see when he was manic and couldn’t bear to be without it when he was depressed. And it’s that smile, the real one. The one he always wore when he looked at Mickey for long enough. When he was too shy to look for too long, but just long enough to find what he wanted in Mickey’s eyes. 

And it’s the beginning. It’s the BEGINNING all over again. It’s the beginning with the tire iron, the bruised cheek, and the swollen knuckles. It’s the beginning with a swift kiss on a hot summer day in a van. It’s the beginning with the lights of the club flashing around them and the music blurring and receding into nothingness inside his buzzing head. It’s the beginning with ‘this goodbye?’. 

Because it’s not. It’s not goodbye. It’s NEVER been goodbye. 

Something happens when his focus clears, it lands on a bed of green summer grass and it lingers on the way the sun kisses a maple leaf after a good rain. And something bursts. Something breaks. Something shatters. 

And it’s the brick and mortar and the glass house and the crumbling drywall and the rotting plaster and the cinderblock and plexiglass and sandcastles and snow forts, collapsing and melting and being pounded into the ground and shattering and bleeding and falling to pieces. 

And it’s happening. It’s HAPPENING. It’s all happening in Ian’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of all the things that Mickey probably should regret in his relationship with Ian. And all the things that Ian should regret as well. But then there's that interview where Noel said he doesn't think either one of them will ever regret any of the things they've been through together. It all got the wheels turning and then the story just took on a mind of it's own and here we are :)
> 
> Thanks for the company, as always. I think I'm pushing this work forward while I'm still editing chapters for I'd Be Waiting since that one is lighthearted and when this one gets a little too emotional or heavy, then I can skip back over to that one and put a smile on my face!


	10. Staying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of some conversations that need to happen.
> 
> So this one is kind of heavy but I think they're both pretty damn aware that they've both made a shit ton of mistakes and they're both aware that they can't just dive into the physical part of their relationship and have that be the bandaid for the past.

Staying

“I thought I lost you,” it’s broken and gasping and snorting and choking on tears. It’s turning into a puddle against Ian’s chest and in his arms. It’s upset and hurt and afraid and all the things he’d never admit to being. And it’s everything. He is EVERYTHING.

And fuck, if Ian had been able to talk, he would have told them to somehow get word back to Mickey immediately. To let him know, that he was fine and he was coming back to him. And he wasn’t leaving him. Not leaving him. He’s NEVER leaving him. 

He tilts his face to tuck it into Mickey’s hair that’s dirty and greasy and has that Earthy pungent odor of a man who’s been awake and pacing and sweating and worried and ready to break for days. And Ian doesn’t give a shit. He didn’t give a shit when Mickey was dirty and trashy and stealing to eat and stealing to live and taking beatings and giving beatings and covered in bruises and scrapes and scars. He didn’t give a shit when his ribs were cracked or broken and his fingers were bruised and his knuckles were split and he always wore that brashness and swagger to hide that broken little boy that was still inside him. 

He doesn’t give a shit. 

It doesn’t matter. It never mattered. The only part, the only part, the ONLY part of him that ever mattered was his heart. 

And how many times has Ian ripped that heart out of his chest and stomped on it? 

Never again. 

Taking a deep breath of that undeniably Mickey scent and nudging his way in to find his face, the skin of his gorgeous face. Nudging until his lips are against him and they’re pressing kisses into his stubble and they’re traveling towards his lips, his perfect lips and seizing them. Not in a moment of passion or lust. Or pure sexual driven nonsense in all the ways he USED to kiss Mickey. Not in that face-devouring, starving to death for affection way that was impossible to avoid back then.

Not like that. 

He’s kissing those lips soft and slow and gentle and loving and caring and understanding and supportive. And he’s lingering. He’s lingering because he’s staying. He is STAYING. There is not a thing or a person or a place or an idea that can peel him off of this man. Now. Ever. 

He stays until he can’t breathe. Until Mickey’s tears and snot have invaded his mouth and that’s perfectly fucking fine with Ian. He’s mostly curled into himself on the floor and Ian has bent around him. Instead of all the times that Ian made Mickey bend to his will and to his needs. Ian is bending. And Ian is going to LISTEN now. Listen to every single word that Mickey will never say. He’s going to listen to the words written in scrolls across his irises. He’s going to listen to the words etched into his skin by Mickey’s touch. He’s going to listen to the words that reach out and knock the wind out of his chest when Mickey smiles. Those are the ones, those are the ones that have always mattered. And those are always the ones that Ian was too deaf to hear. 

“We were lost more than we were ever found,” he whispers against Mickey’s lips when he leans out of the kiss. The kiss that he never wants to end. But it has to. It has to. Just like everything else in this world. It HAS to end. 

It has to end in here where there are killers and bangers and rapists and haters. Where there are drug dealers and drug users and addicts. It has to end in here where there are guards always on the look out. It has to end in here. Everything has to end in here. Everything that MATTERS has to stop mattering. 

His fingers slide through his greasy hair and he smiles, because it has to end, “I love you.”

His expression shifts. It’s not that scared little boy that rises to the surface every now again, only to be drowned and crushed and backed into a corner. It’s not the teenager that was afraid to love, afraid to feel love and to give love. It’s not the young man who was raped and beaten and forced to become a father. 

It clears in his eyes, on the surface of that gorgeous fucking ocean, in the depth of the waves and the pull of the tide and the feel of salt on skin. It clears in that sky’s worth of dreams and hopes and experiences and LOVE. It’s Mickey. It’s just Mickey. Right there looking at him through the sea glass of all their wrongs and all their rights and it’s Mickey when his hands wipe haphazardly across his face and the tears and snot are smeared only to be wiped in the opposite direction and smeared again and rubbed until his face is burning. And it’s Mickey when he smirks and reaches out to tap Ian’s cheek. It’s Mickey when he tries his best hardened man voice with that soft edge that he could never, as hard as he always tried, erase when he talks to Ian, “alright tough guy. Get the fuck off me.”

Because he has to. Because in here, he has to. Because in here the things you love have to become the things you don’t need and you don’t want and you don’t care about. Because in here, the things you LOVE are the things that will get you killed.

And maybe it took this. Maybe it took this exact scenario to get Ian to understand that. To understand THAT. That part of Mickey that couldn’t love when he wanted to and how he wanted to. And now Ian understands THAT.

————

At the end of the day when he’s coming back in the cell and Ian is already lying on his side facing the door. He stands and waits. He stands there and waits. And he doesn’t talk and he doesn’t look. He waits. He waits until it’s lights out and then he sits. He sits down. Right there by Ian’s thighs and Ian can feel his heat but he can’t touch him. Even after lights out, it’s still not dark. And it’s still not safe. And Mickey knows that. Ian knows that.

He sits there for a long time. Silent and thinking. SILENT, silent, and thinking. His thumb rises and Ian knows it’s running the length of his lower lip. At least he smells like he showered and he looks like he showered and Ian kind of hates that. Because now he just smells like prison soap and not Mickey. Not HIS Mickey. Not Mickey.

He takes a deep breath and he doesn’t turn his head, he doesn’t turn his head to look at Ian. To LOOK at Ian. But he says, “I convinced myself you didn’t love me. And I forced myself to stop loving you.”

And it’s silent. You should say something. Anything. You shouldn’t say anything. You need to wait. You need to WAIT.

His thumb drops from his lip. His hand lands on Ian’s shin and lingers. Only for a moment. Just a tiny moment but it means so much. And he wants to ask, he wants to ask him if he’ll stay, if he’ll stay with him, if he’ll lay down until he falls asleep. 

“I want,” he starts haltingly and Ian realizes that Mickey’s probably never started a sentence that way. Or a thought that way, he’s never had a damn thing he WANTS, why would he start now? And maybe he’s tired of it. Maybe he’s tired of being the person everyone else wants him to be. His father, his siblings, his wife. And Ian. At the cost of his own wellbeing and his own happiness he has always been the things and always been the person that everyone else wants him to be or needs him to be. 

How many times, how many times did Terry beat him for being who he wanted to be? How many times did he call over a hooker to get him to be who he wanted him to be? Even just once, just once is too much. How many times did Mickey put aside his own happiness to mold himself around Ian, to protect Ian, to keep Ian safe in a world that was unsafe with a disorder that was uncontrolled? 

“I want,” he tries again and it chokes off. Fuck, he’s never said that, he’s never said he wants anything, “I want to do things right. With you. All of it.”

All of it. ALL of it. He wants to do all of it right. 

Ian does too. He does. But there’s still a part of him that wonders, still fucking wonders, will you love me if I’m not medicated? 

Still wonders. But won’t ask. Not now. Mickey forced himself to stop loving Ian. He FORCED himself to stop. He forced himself to stop because Ian made it clear through breaking up with him and not visiting him and laughing at his ink and not going across the border with him and by being stable and by getting stable for someone else for someone who wasn’t Mickey, for someone who didn’t ride the storm with him without flinching. And now he’s forced to be stable, he’s forced to take his meds because he fucked it up, he fucked it all up, he fucked everything up. And now he has to take the meds. And now he’s FORCED by genetics and by the system and by his mistakes to take the meds even when he doesn’t want to and they make him feel weird and he has to talk to the therapist and he doesn’t want to. And he just wants to know, he wants to know, he WANTS to know if, “does doing it right mean the meds?”

When his breath exits as a disbelieving huff and it shudders a little, his fingers rise to his lids, his hand leaves Ian’s leg and it feels so cold. He grinds into his eyes and he takes a deep breath and Ian just trapped him. He TRAPPED him again. He always traps him into saying the things he doesn’t want to say and doing the things he doesn’t want to do. 

“Don’t answer that,” he retracts, “that was stupid, I…”

His hand falls from his eyes and his finger stays up, it stays up between them. They’re silent and they’re listening to someone walking down the catwalk. Down the catwalk. Past the cell next door. Past their cell. Past their window. Just a guard.

His head turns. It turns. It turns quickly and his eyes are like a physical shove to Ian’s chest, “yes it means the fucking meds Ian. It means the fucking meds because I can’t, fuck,” his breath shakes again, “I can’t stop loving you no matter what I fucking do, but I can’t sit back and watch while you self-destruct,” his eyebrows are the punctuation and right now they’re at their height, “I can’t stop loving you no matter what you do, but fuck, I’m so fucking terrified you’ll end up dead when you’re manic or you’ll fuckin’…”

He trails off but his eyes linger until his face twists and he looks away, “but not for me. Not for your family. Not for your boyfriend. Not for your job. For you. You have to take the fucking meds for you,” he’s grinding again and his breathing is hitched, “you have to want the control Ian. You have to.”

He gets up suddenly. Ian’s not sure if he’s telling him or begging him but he feels it. He feels exactly where Mickey is coming from. So quickly. 

“I’m not going to force you to do anything. I’m not going to give you any fuckin’ ultimatums or some shit. That shit doesn’t fuckin’ work.”

He thinks about the night at the Alibi. It was come out or lose me. And Mickey knew that. And Ian knew Mickey knew that. He chose Ian. He chose Ian. He CHOSE Ian. Over his own wellbeing and over his father and his wife and his baby. And over everything that he had. He never fucking had much but he gave it all up, he gave it ALL up for Ian.

“Is that what it takes, huh? Is telling you I won’t be with you and I won’t love you if you’re not on meds, is that what it’ll take to get you to stay on them?”

“No,” it sort of squeaks out and where he used to be ready for a fight wherever the fight was, he’s not anymore. He’s not ready to fight, he doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to fight with Mickey, “I just, I don’t know. I just wish I was… I wish I was normal.”

“What the fuck does that even mean? Normal. No one’s fuckin’ normal. It’s such a stupid fucking concept. Why the fuck would you want to be normal? Fuck. You know anybody who’s normal? ‘Cause I sure as fuck don’t. Everybody got problems, and you just fucking deal with them ‘cause you got no other choice. Ain’t like I chose fuckin’ Terry and a dead mom. Ain’t like I chose to beat the shit out of people and sell drugs to keep a fuckin’ roof over my head. Ain’t like I chose to fuck a whore and raise a fuckin’ baby. Fuck, Ian,” his breath shakes and he stops moving. Standing in the middle of the cell, his eyes glowing in the dimness, like he’s looking right through Ian. 

Would you at least LOOK at me? Ian’s lip trembles and he bites it. He bites it. Mickey still can’t say it. He still can’t talk about it. He still can’t say that his father had him RAPED. He can’t say it. He can’t think about it. He can’t admit that it was RAPE. 

“I didn’t choose shit Ian. And you didn’t choose bipolar. But you are. And you fuckin’ handle that shit. ‘Cause when you don’t handle it,” his hand rises, sweeping across the cell, finishing his statement without another word.

“I,” he has to clear his throat, “I know. I know. I fucked up. I fucked up for me and for you and for a bunch of homeless kids and,” his voice trembles and he stops talking.

He waits, he’s quiet and waiting. His eyes are still burning right through Ian from the middle of this place they’ve been locked up together for how fucking long now? And they still can’t talk? They have no other option, no other option, and they still can’t TALK.

“Fuck,” he sits up now, he should probably get the fuck out of Mickey’s bunk and let him have it back. He should get back to his own and let Mickey sleep on a fucking mattress because Mickey can’t let Ian be the first thing someone sees when they walk in the door. Mickey can’t allow Ian to be the lookout, Mickey is used to being on guard and ready, he’s used to being ALERT. Always, his entire fucking life. He’ll sleep on the fucking floor right at the door for as long as Ian is in his bunk. 

He wants to tell him it’s not fair. It’s not FAIR that the disorder makes him crazy and the meds make him sick and the meds make him foggy and it’s not fucking FAIR. But what the fuck has ever been FAIR in Mickey’s life? 

“It wasn’t about the boyfriend,” is all he can get to exit his lips, “nothing was ever about the boyfriend. He wasn’t the reason I medicated, he wasn’t the reason I stopped, and he sure in the fuck wasn’t the reason I left you,” his voice cracks, swallowing hard as he watches Mickey’s eye contact falter.

He gets to his feet, sliding his hands over Mickey’s cheeks and holding his face, forcing the eye contact, forcing himself to watch, to WATCH what his words and his presence do to those gorgeous irises, “he was not the reason I left you at the border. And maybe I did the same fucking thing, maybe I did the same fucking thing when you were locked up. I forced myself to stop loving you. But that doesn’t mean I loved him. That doesn’t mean I loved anyone else. Ever,” his breath shakes and he watches Mickey’s eyes fill, “you honestly think that I don’t regret that decision? Fuck, Jesus, fuck, Mick, I have done so many stupid fucking things in my life that I regret. But that one,” his thumbs slide across his perfectly stubbled cheeks, just in case something liquid falls from his eyes, “leaving you to cross the border into something dangerous and unknown. Alone. I left you alone. Because I was stable,” he half laughs at it, “I was fucking stable. And then I came home and threw it all away.”

Now he starts squirming. He starts squirming now. Under the touch. Under the eye contact. Under the intensity. 

Ian releases him. And he steps back. 

Chewing on the tip of his thumb. Chewing and watching. Chewing and watching. And fuck prison, fuck. If they weren’t in this fucking cell, he’d kiss him. He’d kiss him the way he always has. Like his fucking life depends on it. And it does. It DOES. Ian’s life depends on Mickey. Ian’s stability and his hope and his happiness and his love DEPEND on Mickey.

Because he loves him. Always, “I love you,” it’s barely a whisper and it shakes. And he backs up. He backs away from Mickey. He backs away until his shoulder is against the frame of the bunks. And he listens and he watches. And he listens as another guard walks by. He’s learning. He’s learning. He’s LEARNING. How to listen and how to be aware and how to be ready. In a way he’s never known before. Southside is Southside and everyone is the same and everyone is different. The things that have always made Mickey different from Ian are the things he’d never talk about. The things he’d never TALK about. He’d never say. And even when he knew, when Ian KNEW, even when he knew he still NEVER knew. 

He saw the bruises and the burns and the belt lashings throughout the years, he saw the fear and the hyperawareness and the anxiety and the fucking FEAR of abandonment. He saw the RAPE. He witnessed the rape. And he still never saw it. He never fucking SAW it when it was right in front of his face. All along, it was right in front of his face.

“I love you,” it’s louder this time and it doesn’t shake. Something happens in Mickey’s eyes, something happens on his face and it almost looks like a smile, “I love you,” and Ian smiles and it’s louder this time, and, “I love you,” and he’s grinning.

He moves quick, he always moves quick. Afraid to stand still, afraid to get caught, afraid to get hit or yelled at or raped or beaten or burned or pounded or belted or whatever else that sick fucker did to him throughout his childhood and whatever else was done to him behind bars each time he’s been behind bars and whatever happened to him in Mexico. But then he turned himself in, he turned his fucking self in to be with Ian. He turned himself in. To be behind bars again. He gave up the first taste of freedom he ever fucking had. He gave it up FOR Ian.

His lips are quick and hard and passionate, they’re warm and soft and loving. They’re hungry and wild and restrained and tame. They’re fucking everything. They’re EVERYTHING. He’s EVERYTHING. 

And he pulls away with a gorgeous fucking smirk on his face. He steps back and Ian’s breathless and staring and his entire fucking body is on a different planet. From just that, from that. From just a kiss. And he’s still smiling at Mickey and Mickey is starting to smile back. He’s smiling a real fucking smile and it’s fucking gorgeous and Ian tells him, “you’re gorgeous.”

And he shakes his head but he can’t shake the smile, “you need to shut the fuck up Gallagher before someone hears you,” shaking his head some more as his thumb rubs the length of his lip and his eyes drop for a moment. 

His gaze lingers on Ian’s midsection, where he knows there’s an incision from emergency surgery, where he knows there are stitches from a shiv, where he knows there are things that are healing and he knows there are things that will always be there and he knows there are memories, more memories, just more painful memories to add to all the others, “you already know what bein’ around me gets you.”

“Yeah, and you already know what being around me gets you, so call it even?”

“Fuck you,” he thumbs his nose and takes a step back again.

“Fuck you, like we’re even? Or fuck you, like take off your ugly fuckin’ jumpsuit?”

“Ian, I don’t…” he’s getting all fidgety. 

“That’s okay,” backing up, all the way up, and sitting down. Trying not to let it show, let it show. Trying NOT to let it show. They’re in prison. They are in prison. And Mickey just finished telling him that he wants to do it right. He WANTS to do it right, “probably should get the stitches and shit out first anyway,” he tries a smile. 

Watching Mickey’s face fall, watching his gaze drop, watching regret creeping in. REGRET. Like it was his fault. It was Mickey’s FAULT.

“Mick,” he sighs, “they weren’t even after you. You have no way of knowing it was you. It’s not like we’re easy to mistake for one another,” he smiles again and Mickey’s eyes rise, only as far as Ian’s throat, “maybe they were just fag haters. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t another thing that needs to matter between us. Okay?” 

And he wants to run his fingers through his black hair and he wants to tilt his beautiful face to look at him and he wants to LOOK at him, he wants to SEE him, he wants to FEEL him. But this is prison. 

He half nods, but his eyes won’t meet Ian’s. 

Fuck, the silence. The silence that is never really silence in here, but the silence that is rolling off Mickey and building up between them to add to the wall of silence that has always existed between them. It never seemed so fucking big before. 

“Mick?”

His eyes dart to Ian’s.

“It doesn’t matter, okay?”

“Yeah, well I should have been here.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t and it’s not your fault and if you were here, what the fuck difference would it make? You’d be the one missing some hardware instead of me, or we’d both be missing some hardware. But it doesn’t fucking matter. You’re not the one who had the shiv in your hand, you’re not the one who stabbed, you’re not the one who hurt me. So it’s not your fucking fault. Alright?”

“Fuck,” his fingers are in his eyes, “fine, fuck,” they drop and he blinks. Blinks. Blinks. Clears and lingers, “when you gettin’ that shit out?”

“The staples?”

“Yeah, and whatever else is…”

“Should be tomorrow.”

“What else is there?”

“What do you mean?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose while his eyes press shut for a long moment, “fuck. What else? Like what else am I gonna see?”

“When you fuck me?”

“No, shut up fucker. Just, what else…”

He shrugs when that ocean lands on his eyes finally, “most of the stabs were in the back. Emergency surgery scars are pretty gnarly, so,” he traces a finger over his jumpsuit where the incision was. He watches Mickey’s eyes trail his finger and he watches his brows rise and he watches him flinch. 

And fuck, when it’s the real thing, when he’s actually looking at the real thing, fuck. Ian is going to have to prepare for that. He’s going to have to prepare for Mickey’s reaction to seeing that, “it’s not a big deal Mick. Really,” and he’s going to talk to Dr. Fields about this, about how to make sure Mickey understands this, how to make sure Mickey doesn’t blame himself, how to make sure he doesn’t lose his mind with anger and pain and whatever else would rise when his eyes scan the naked scar. 

Right now, right now, just talking about it, just TALKING about it, he’s visibly upset. He’ll never voice it, he’ll never say anything more than, “I should have been here.”

“Mick,” he sighs, patting the bed beside him, knowing already it’s no use.

Watching as he takes off pacing the cell, “I should have been here Ian.”

Should have talked to Dr Fields yesterday is what he should have done. When he paces past him this time, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over his arm, grasping at his wrist. He shakes it out. There’s a part of him that knows already, KNOWS there’s no sense in trying to convince him otherwise. Not now, maybe not ever, “just some homophobic fucks who finally recognized me, seriously. Not about you,” he tries again but he knows Mickey is deaf with anger and regret and self-loathing. He knows he’s fucking worried. And last time he worried, last time he WORRIED, Ian punched him in the face for it, “I never should have hit you.”

He stops suddenly, “what?”

“I never should have hit you in the dugout that afternoon.”

He waves him off with his hand in the air and continues his pacing route. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, “yeah, well, maybe I don’t know how to love you without stifling you ‘cause the only things I’ve ever loved,” his voice trails off and his fingers are back at his eyes, “so maybe when you’re sick I should just let you be sick. Maybe I should never pressure you to take your meds. Maybe when you’re limp-dicked and it’s my fuckin’ fault, maybe I should just back the fuck off and let you deal with it. Maybe when you’re manic and doing crazy shit and when you’re depressed and won’t eat, maybe I should just ignore it, huh?”

“No,” he wants to holler at him. Part of him even wants to punch him. But that’s how they used to do things. And the way things USED to be, that shit didn’t work, “no Mick,” he reaches for his wrist again, this time he stops walking and he lets him grip, “no. I didn’t want to see any of that shit. I didn’t want to see that I was Monica, that I was doing the things she always did to us. I didn’t want to believe the diagnosis. I didn’t want to, fuck, I still don’t want to,” he takes the chance, sliding his fingers down Mickey’s wrist and into his hands, “I still don’t want to believe it’s an all my life thing. But,” he brings their locked hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single letter, “I will figure it out. I will manage it. I will take the meds and I will work with the therapist. And I will do all the shit I’m supposed to do. I’ll avoid all the shit I’m supposed to avoid. But I want to know,” his lips move to Mickey’s wrist, “I just want to know, if you love me for me or if you love me because you pity me.”

“What the fuck? Why the fuck would I pity you?” he shakes out of his grasp now, “I loved you before and I loved you during and I love you after. And it’s pretty fuckin’ clear to me that I’m the only fuckin’ person who’s done that and it sure in the fuck ain’t for fuckin’ show. It ain’t like I’m usin’ you for your looks or some shit, your fifteen minutes of manic fame. What the fuck? You think I saw that stupid shirt with your face on it, and I thought ‘oh poor Ian, I better get my ass back to Chicago so I can pity love him’? Fuck,” he shakes his head.

“What did you think? When you saw it?”

FUCK rubs the length of his face, “fuck. I don’t know. What did you think? I was down in Mexico fuckin’ layin’ on a beach all fuckin’ day? Not givin’ a shit about shit and spendin’ your couple grand a fuckin’ penny at a time. Which, I really fuckin’ hate you for leaving that in the fucking car,” his finger jabs the air between them and Ian knows he is craving the hell out of a cig right now, “and now I owe you fuckin’ money and I fuckin’ hate that.”

“I know,” but the intimidation is only making Ian smile, “I know you do,” forcing it back, smiling at him right now could only serve to piss him off.

“Cartel is…” his damn fingers in his eyes again. For a long fucking time, long enough that Ian leans back, all the way back, scrunching himself into the bunk and against the cinderblock. He’s tired, he’s exhausted, but Mickey is giving him an opening and he NEEDS to take it, “yeah sure there were some weekends on a resort. And I did a bunch of drugs and had a lot of sex and sure, it was great, it was fuckin’ great to just do whatever the fuck I wanted. But that was like,” his fingers are grinding, knowing he can’t look at Ian while he’s talking about fucking other people, “fuck,” his hand immediately fists up when it pulls back from his eyes, “fuck, I just, fuck. Cartels are fucked up. Ian, they are fucked up. And those weekends, yeah, they were fuckin’ fun. I don’t regret that shit. And I don’t regret learnin’ how to…” his voice trails off.

“Take it slow,” Ian finishes for him. His mind wanders only to Caleb for that reason, the one thing he gave him that was worth keeping. Learning how to take it slow. 

“Yeah. Don’t mean I need… fuckin’ coddling or some shit. But I just,” he’s not sure what he’s doing with his fist. Ian’s not sure what he’s doing with his fist. Waiting, knowing eventually the impact will be made with something. He’s certain it won’t be his face. He doubts he’ll take it out on the metal chair again. The metal chair won last round, which Ian supposes Mickey could take as a challenge. Maybe he will take it out on the metal chair.

Instead, U-UP slides over it, like he’s putting out a small fire on his fingers. 

'Mickey would set a match to that’.

Ian takes a deep breath, and watches. He waits. He WAITS, knowing they have the time. 

“And yeah, maybe I was gettin’ lonely for…” he shrugs. Home. HOME. But Mickey’s never had a home. Not the Milkovich house of horrors. Not the Gallagher house where Ian made him sleep on the floor like a dog. Not juvie. Fuck, did anyone visit him the second time? Not Ian. Ian thought they were done. Done is done, but Mickey came back for him. And Mickey didn’t skip a fucking beat when he found him fucking someone else under the bleachers. And Ian went from the mechanics of sex, from just a warm hole, to being overpowered and completely lost in the moment with Mickey. He went from gripping the bleachers overhead to gripping the knobs of Mickey’s hips. And there was never another thing in this world that felt like it was MADE for Ian’s hands.

“Chicago,” he finally finishes. And that’ll work, that’ll work because Chicago encompasses it all, “so I saw your damn face on a t-shirt on some fuckin’ twink in Mexico. I got a hold of Mandy, she told me you were all over YouTube and shit. Totally fucking manic. Fuck,” his eyes are holding Ian’s, “Cartel’s suck, Mexico’s hot, and Chicago is where I’m s’posed to be. You happy now? Or you wanna psychoanalyze every fucking thing we’ve done to each other in the last fucking decade? Should I get out a fuckin’ scorecard so we can decide for final who the bigger asshole is? Start from the start or should I just start listin’ all the shit I’m sorry for and you start listin’ all the shit you’re sorry for?”

“No. Mick, come on, we both know who the bigger asshole is,” he smiles when he realizes how long Mickey has been looking directly at his eyes. How long he’s been speaking. He’s been talking about how he FEELS. He’s been TALKING. Ian’s hand extends, palm up in the space between them, “I am sorry though, okay? I’m sorry for all the shit that I put you through when I was unmedicated and then when I was being a dick about the meds. That shit was not your fault and I acted like it was. And don’t tell me it was the disorder and try to shrug it off like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t hurt. I was the first person you ever trusted outside your family,” he flaps his hand in the air impatiently while Mickey eyes it, “whether it was the disorder spurring me on or not, it was still me that hurt you. And I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t a fuckin’ saint either Gallagher.”

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t leave me hanging here,” waving his hand around again.

Sucking his cheeks between his teeth while he scans Ian’s hand over, gorgeous eyes rolling as his hand rises and falls into Ian’s grasp, “I love you.”

“I heard you the first fifty times, fuck.”

“Yeah, well, when I stand on the table in the cafeteria tomorrow and shout it to the whole fucking place that I love you and I love having your dick in my ass and I love being your bitch.”

“Don’t fuckin’ say that,” it’s more of a sigh than a demand.

“Which part? Because it’s all true.”

“The bitch part.”

Tugging his hand to get him to come closer. He takes a deep breath and sits. He sits down next to Ian with a heavy exhaustion that Ian knows came from worrying about him. His leg is close enough to touch, his shoulder is leaned forwards a little, not touching.

Mickey bottomed. Mickey loved to bottom. He LOVED to bottom with Ian. But he was NEVER Ian’s bitch. Even when Ian treated him that way.

“Mick, I’ve never felt anything like that before,” he slides his fingers through Mickey’s, “bottoming for you. That was the most incredible sex I’ve ever had,” he’s not lying. 

Bottoming with Trevor, was, it was nothing. There was nothing special about it. But Mickey, the way Mickey treated him, the way he touched him, it was, “I’m not kidding,” he turns quickly to plant a kiss on Mickey’s shoulder, on the ugly jumpsuit that he’s gotten used to. And he kind of likes the way it looks on Mickey’s ass. No, that’s not true. He LOVES the way it looks on Mickey’s ass.

“I thought that nothing could ever be better than topping for you, but,” he leans into his warmth, wanting to melt, wanting to press his face in and linger and stay there until Mickey can’t deny him what he wants. But he pulls back, “that was, I mean I wish it didn’t happen in prison, but…”

“You’re not my bitch, man, that’s…”

“I know. I know. Liking what I like don’t make me a bitch,” he nudges Mickey’s shoulder with his own, “and I like your cock. No, I love your cock.”

“Fuck you,” but a smirk rises and Ian is nearly certain he’s blushing before he turns his head.

“Whenever you want. That offer stands for the rest of our lives Mick,” bringing his hand to his lips, “honestly,” kissing each knuckle, only releasing when he hears the footsteps outside again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: most of my canon fill-ins that give more understanding to Ian and his diagnosis are in Right There Next To You. For this particular work I only wanted to take what canon gave us as far as deciphering for ourselves what parts were brought on by his diagnosis and what parts weren't. I'm not trying to be a dick or shed a shitty light on him, I did a lot of research into his particular diagnosis when I wrote RTNTY and gave enough explanations and fill-ins for that work. This is simply a different take on it. But the truth is, when you love someone with an emotional/mood/mental disorder sometimes it is a hard pill to swallow. My husband is a combat vet with PTSD and I'm the anxiety queen, and we don't always give each other the crutch to explain the actions. Sometimes we each just have to own up to our shit and say 'yes that may have been the anxiety talking, but it was still my mouth that was making the noise'. There is more on Ian's feelings towards his diagnosis in later chapters, this work is a lot of tide shifting and a lot of silence when there should be words and a lot of things that I think prison would keep stifling. But by the end, we'll all get a pretty fair shake.
> 
> And honestly, have any of us ever liked the Gallaghers 100% of the time? I certainly haven't even though in real life I can seriously relate to them on a lot of levels.
> 
> So this is simply fiction and this is simply storytelling. But they seem to be on the right road to start healing and start trusting.
> 
> I didn't think I'd get to this chapter today but I still have a little bit of down time here so we'll see if I get any further :)


	11. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more chatting. The concept of unlovable. Which I think is something they both feel fairly often in their lives.

Broken

The rest of our lives. The rest of OUR lives. The REST of our lives. 

Fuck. His fingers grind into his eyes until the spots rise and the spots collide and spots explode. Then he releases and blinks. He blinks at the ceiling and he blinks at his worries and he blinks at his fears. But he can’t blink them away. He can never just blink the AWAY.  
He can hear Ian breathing on the bunk below him. He can hear him starting to shift to sleep breathing. He can hear that. He can HEAR that. 

Does Mickey want to fuck Ian? Yeah. That’s a stupid fucking question. Does Mickey want to fuck Ian for the rest of his life? 

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. 

He sighs. It’s louder than he intended and he hears Ian’s breath shift again. And now the fucker’s going to wait. Or he’s going to ask. Or he’s going to do this whole silent and waiting thing that he’s been suddenly doing. And it pisses Mickey off. But then he talks. And that pisses him off. Talking pisses him off. Talking about all the SHIT they put each other through. TALKING about it only brings it back to the surface. Talking about it only makes it reappear in Mickey’s memories when he thought he buried that shit. When he thought he forgot about it. When he thought he could move forward for Ian’s two year sentence, when he thought he could do what he intended to do. He could keep Ian safe in the can. He could tell him goodbye when he was released. He could finish his time, the time he bargained his ass off for. Mickey’s never bargained before, always just taken what was handed out. Always just knew, this is it. This is the life. This is the consequence of growing up poor Southside trash. This is what happens when parents don’t give a fuck more than just a punching bag. This is what happens when the drugs and the booze are more important than the children. Than their children. THEIR children.

He thinks of his mom. He thinks of how when he found her, there was still a needle in her grasp. She was already cold. She was already dead. But that needle was still in her hand. Her hand where it had fallen to the linoleum. 

“Fuck,” now his fingers rise again. And rub. They rub until her lifeless body appears. They rub until her lifeless body disappears. They rub until it’s Mandy’s lifeless body. They rub until it’s Iggy’s lifeless body. They rub until it’s Colin’s lifeless body. And fuck, when will it be Mickey’s? Where? Will it be here? Will it be behind concrete and cinderblock and bars? 

He hops off the bunk. Removes the shiv from it’s hiding spot and lays on the floor. If they’re coming for him, they’ll get him. They’ll get him this time. HIM. Not Ian. NOT Ian. Not this time. 

“Mick,” it’s a sigh, and it’s heavy and it’s tired and he just wants some damn sleep. And he needs some damn sleep to heal. And he needs some damn sleep to stay on schedule. And he needs to stay on his schedule. 

“Go to sleep firecrotch.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“I know,” it’s more of a growl than a statement. He doesn’t feel like talking anymore. He doesn’t feel like talking. He doesn’t feel like talking about IT. About any of it. He doesn’t want to hear Ian make excuses and lies. He knows, he KNOWS, Mickey knows. Mickey knows it was his fault. It’s all his fault. It’s all always been his fault. Fuck, he should never have found him after his second stint in juvie. Or fuckin’ third one. Fuck. The third one. That was the third one. He did time before he even knew Ian. It was only the second one according to Ian. ‘Cause that was all Ian knew, and Mickey wasn’t about to correct him. Fuckever reason, maybe it made him less of a piece of shit if it was only twice. Maybe he didn’t want Ian to know just how much of a piece of shit he was. Fucked for life, but it didn’t feel that way when Ian looked at him back then. So if he told him, the full truth of it, if he knew the full TRUTH of Mickey. 

“Mom OD’d. I found her body. I did three sentences in juvie. Three. When I was seven, I cut the head off a mouse just to see what happened. I drank my first beer when I was eight. I can’t remember the first time I threw a punch. But I do remember the first time I hit a girl. It was Mandy. And not just rough-housing hit. I gave her a fat lip. I don’t even remember what it was about. Somethin’ stupid. Only time I ever got to play a sport was little league. Coach told me I had a shitty attitude so I pissed on the base, I would have shit on it but I didn’t have to go. I don’t remember the first time Dad smacked me but I do remember the first time he put a cigarette out on my skin. I remember when Colin brought home some fish from the pet store and we heated them up in the coffee pot. I remember the first time I watched my dad and my uncle weigh down a body and dump it in the river. I remember the first time we dug a grave. I remember the first time I shot a guy. It was in the arm. The first time I got shot was not by Kash. Grazed my left side, it was Joey. Said it was a misfire.”

He’s telling the door. Even in prison darkness he’d still be able to watch what this does to Ian’s face and he can’t fuckin’ bear to watch that. 

“Collectin’ for my dad meant bruises, split lips, black eyes, the occasional brass knuckles or lead pipe. Collectin’ for the cartel meant cuttin’ off fingers. I was trained from birth to be a piece of shit, I’ll always be a piece of shit. Not enough prison rehabilitation in the fuckin’ world to change that.”

He’s silent for awhile. For a long while. Long enough that Mickey thinks he won’t respond. Finally, he finally pushed him away. Fuck. Took long enough. A swell of emotions that Mickey would never admit to having rises in his chest. A bittersweet victory. The one and only, the one and only person who ever loved him, LOVED him by choice. And he’s finally pushed him away. He’s finally proved that he ain’t worth loving.

“You trying to prove you’re unlovable?”

Fuck. 

“No. You’re tryin’ to prove you’re unlovable ‘cause you’re fuckin’ bipolar. I’m just tellin’ you what exactly I am. And you ain’t gonna change that.”

YOU CAN’T FIX ME.

“You think I fuckin’ pity love you ‘cause you got a disorder?”

“And you think I pity love you ‘cause you’re a shit-talkin’ bitch-slappin’ piece of Southside trash? I know who you are. I’ve always known who you are. Did I know that shit? No. Does it surprise me? No. Does it make me want to turn and run? No. Does it make me want to know more? Yeah. Does it make me want to know everything? Fuck yeah. Mick, would you look at me, please?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he can hear him shifting again. He can hear him getting up. Fuck, he shouldn’t have made him get up. Fuck. 

His feet appear in front of Mickey’s face, bare feet on cement. 

And then he’s sitting, he’s sitting cross legged right in front of Mickey’s face. And for once, Mickey is looking at his crotch and not thinking about sex. He’s looking at the jumpsuit and hating that he’s looking at the fucking jumpsuit. Of all the fucking things he never wanted, he NEVER wanted, never wanted for Ian is this. This right here. Behind fucking bars. His fault? His fault for goin’ after Sammi and ending up in the can instead of there to force Ian to see that he didn’t want to fix him, he WASN’T broken and Monica was fuckin’ wrong. Ian was never fucking BROKEN and Mickey fucking knew that. 

Then his eyes are scanning up, they’re trailing the length of where his fingers traced the incision mark. They’re trailing the mark. They’re lingering there. And he wonders, he wonders, he’ll maybe always WONDER, was it his fault too? Or is Ian being honest? Is he protecting Mickey from thinking it was his fault? Or was it truly some anti-Gay-Jesus fucks who came after him?

“They say anything?”

“Who?”

“The assholes that came after you.”

“No,” he sighs, “but like I said Mick, we’d be pretty hard to confuse for one another. It wasn’t even dark in here. They’d have to be so fucking stupid to think I was the short stocky brunette that had a hit out on him.”

“You call me short?”

“Yeah. Got a problem with that?”

“Stocky?”

“You think someone who put a price on your head would describe you the way I’d describe you?”

His eyes finally rise to meet Ian’s, the fucker is smiling at him, “fuck you.”

“I know,” the bastard reaches out to trace a finger over Mickey’s hand, “you’re not unlovable. You’re not a piece of trash. At least not in the sense you think you are. You’re a piece of trash ‘cause you’re broke and never finished school and all the things that Southside and shitty parenting gave you. But you’re not a piece of trash. You are important to me. I did a shitty job of proving that to you in the last few years,” his stupid eyes are a trap once Mickey looks at them for too long he can’t look away, “you’ve got a temper and you’ve done some shitty things to survive, but you shouldn’t feel bad about that shit. Not in the self-doubting, self-hating way that you do,” he shrugs, “maybe in retrospect your response isn’t the best one to most situations,” now the idiot smiles at him, “but the nature versus nurture bullshit aside, sometimes you just need to grow up and learn from mistakes. Right?”

“Nice pep talk Gallagher.”

“I know. I’ll go from fifteen minutes of YouTube fame to prison to self-help guru.”

He feels himself smirking and he feels Ian’s hand still lingering on his fingers and he wants to feel Ian’s hands everywhere. But this is fuckin’ prison. Fuck. 

“Speaking of self-help,” the very tip of his finger traces over Mickey’s knuckles, “you, um, if you get your GED and take some courses…”

“Fuck you. I already did.”

“The GED?”

“Yah. Last month.”

“Courses?”

“Starting some bullshit in two weeks.”

“What kind of bullshit?”

“Ain’t it all just a way to pass the fuckin’ time?”

“Yeah, just wondering.”

“It’s like a fuckin’ art class or some shit,” his hand pulls itself away from Ian’s, thumb trailing his lip then finding his nose.

“Good,” that damn proud smile that Mickey realizes he hasn’t seen in a long fuckin’ time is on his lips.

“Good?”

“Yeah. You think I bought into that bullshit about someone else working on your tattoo?”

He doesn’t respond vocally, but he can feel his eyebrows doing it for him.

“I know you’re the one working on it. I know you Mick. I know when you’re lying. And I know when you’re lying because you think you should be ashamed of yourself for wanting something or liking something or being good at something. And you’re pretty fucking good at ink, especially considering you’re doing it on your own skin and it’s upside down to you.”

“Well, it’s easier if it’s upside down.”

“How’s that?”

“Maybe it’s not upside down. Maybe the rest of the world is upside down.”

He shrugs and the stupid dopey proud smile is going nowhere, neither is the eye contact. Fuck, he wants to kiss him. He really wants to fucking kiss him. Fuck, he’s shifting his weight, leaning up on his elbow.

Fuckin’ baton on the door. Just a reminder, just a friendly fucking reminder. This is PRISON. Love ain’t a thing you do in prison. Kissing ain’t a thing you do in prison. Holding hands ain’t a thing you do in prison. 

————

He tries not to look. He tries not to look. He TRIES not to look. Standing in the showers lookin’ at other dudes ain’t okay regardless, but he tries. He really fuckin’ tries not to look. At the stabs in his back and the incision scar on his abdomen. And he tries not to look. And he tries not to FEEL. But his eyes are raked over his body. Over the imperfections in his flesh that never used to exist. That only exist now because of Mickey. 

And he tries to believe him. He TRIES to believe what he said. But who the fuck would be after Ian? If it was the Gay Jesus shit, if it was that, it would have happened already. It would have happened right away. Not a fuckin’ year later. Or eighteen months. Or however the fuck long they’ve been in here avoiding each other and pushing each other away and trying not to get sucked back into the whirlpool of their life together. And trying so fucking hard to resist gravity. 

There is no LOVE in prison. There is no LOVE outside of prison, not when you’re the one locked up. 

And, yeah, sure, the scars are probably just another thing that dudes will be attracted to on him when he gets out. When he gets out and forgets Mickey exists. When he gets out and his life moves on. When he gets out and his life MOVES on. MOVES on while you were locked up.

The stupid fucking ginger sensed it, he sensed it. Back in their cell, locked in for the night. Before lights out. Under the fucking florescent or incandescent or maybe LED, who the fuck knows, he’s watching him as soon as he sits at the desk. He sits on the chair that Mickey has a scar from. Deep enough to probably keep for life. Didn’t help that it was infected and shit, but fuckever, gave him a few days off laundry duty. 

Fuckin’ chair. Always sittin’ there, bolted to the ground, watching him, like, ‘yeah fucker. I won.’

“Fuck that chair.”

“I see you’ve had your daily helping of Grumpy-O’s.”

“Funny.”

“I know,” dumb fucker. That stupid cheesy bullshit always makes Mickey smile. And he fuckin’ knows that. He’s not going to ask him, he’s not going to say, ‘hey Mick, you check me out in the shower? How you feel about that? Think I’m still fuckable? Think it’ll make other dudes want me that much more if I have a rough edge to my innocent looks?’

“Fuck,” his fingers rise to his eyes and he blurts, “you gonna pretend I don’t exist again as soon as you’re out?”

“No.”

Blinking away the fog and blinking away the focus and blinking until all that’s there are two big emeralds staring at him.

“No. I’m not. I’m going to be here once a week. I’m going to answer every single fucking time you call. I’m going to be standing in the parking lot waiting for you when you get out. I’ll get a job, maybe throw myself at the mercy of the city and hope to fuck they can give me my medic job back. Since the arrest didn’t happen while I was employed, I stand a chance. The incident didn’t happen on the job. Fuck, I reached out to Sue, sent her a letter last week. Hopefully she’ll respond. She should know, if anyone knows, she should know how to get my job back. And if not that, then something else. Anything else. Fuck, no, not anything else. No stripping, none of that shit, nothing that could trigger hyper-sexuality. I am not going down that road again. Only person I’m going to grind against ever again is you and you don’t like lap-dances,” he smiles, it’s kind of shy and kind of embarrassed, “no more party favors or parties or drinking or any of that shit either. I’ll get a job. I’ll get us an apartment. I’ll get moving on the things that matter, the things that are a commitment between me and handling my shit, and between me and you. And I’ll wait. If you’ll let me.”

“Let you?”

“Let me wait. I mean,” his eyes drop now, landing on the ground between them, “you have your, um, well, you said he’s not your boyfriend. But I saw the way he was looking at you, I just, um, I’m not going to make you choose or…”

“You think I’m gonna get out of here and hightail it back to Mexico?”

“I don’t know. I mean, that guy…”

“Fuck, Ian, he owns a damn resort. I was his dealer. Sometimes we partook in the shit together and fucked. He’s a horny sleek little fucker with a sexy accent. But he ain’t my boyfriend.”

“Is he, um, is he where you, um, you know, the whole learning to take it slow thing?”

“Fuckin’ foreplay? Is he where I learned foreplay?”

A blush drowns out his remaining faded freckles and Mickey realizes he didn’t notice when they started fading away, “yeah.”

He shrugs, “yeah.”

“Well, I’ll remember to thank him if I ever see him,” he tries a smile but Mickey’s not dumb. And Mickey’s kind of enjoying seeing jealousy in him. 

“You do that tough guy.”

————

Yeah, so maybe someday, maybe at some point, maybe SOMEDAY they’ll just be part of Ian. They’ll just be a part of Ian no different than his orange hair, or his dopey smile, or his childish laugh, or his big damn hands, or his faded freckles. Maybe the scars will someday just be a part of him. Just a part of him. Nothing more than anything else on his body. 

And fuck, maybe someday Mickey won’t worry about all the other dudes that’ll see ‘em. Maybe his mind won’t be imagining Ian laying in bed with some dude who ain’t Mickey while Mickey’s still locked up, maybe he won’t imagine Ian lettin’ some dude trail a finger over each one of them, telling him that, ‘yeah that was some ex of mine who got me into some shit, he was always getting me into some shit, he’s pretty fucking toxic’. 

Maybe someday Mickey won’t think about it when they’re livin’ together in some shitty apartment and Ian is out for the night with his friends or his siblings or his coworkers, maybe Mickey won’t imagine that he’s getting his dick sucked by some old fairy who wants to buy him things that Mickey can’t afford, and maybe the old fucker isn’t asking what kind of surgery he had as he’s wiping Ian’s cum out of the corners of his mouth.

Yeah. Sure. Why the fuck not? SOMEDAY.

————

So then it’s been two fuckin’ birthdays. Two fuckin’ birthdays locked up at Beckman Correctional. It’s been two fuckin’ BIRTHDAYS. And Mickey is sittin’ at the picnic table. Watin’. And he ain’t sure who’s here. He ain’t sure who’s gettin’ patted down on their way in. Maybe Mandy finally remembered he’s still ALIVE. He knows it ain’t gonna be Colin or Iggy, no way they’d set foot in a pen ‘less they were forced to. As in, cuffed and sentenced.

Sure in the fuck won’t be Svet and the little nugget. Fuckin’ little nugget’s probably not so little anymore. But it ain’t like she’d bring him around to meet him behind bars. Even if he ain’t his real dad, still, ain’t like a meeting here is a good place. 

Probably Lou. Most likely, maybe Eddie. Fuck. Eddie. With his pretty eyes and his soft hands and his constant eye-fucking. Lookin’ at Mickey like he’s his fuckin’ personal buffet. 

Yah, sure is. That fuckin’ broad with her damn long ass legs, nearly fuckin’ naked walking across a fuckin’ prison yard. Mickey’s fists clench where they’re resting on the table. Well, if he’s gettin’ attention based off her, then the fag-beaters won’t be coming around for him anyway. Not a bad thing. And fuck, Ian’s self-righteous out-and-proud ass had a fake girlfriend for how fucking long? 

Fuckever. They’re both smiling and it makes Mickey smile. But it feels different. It feels DIFFERENT. And it ain’t them. It’s Mickey. 

It’s a cupake again. And it tastes like Mexico again. And it tastes pretty fuckin’ good. But not as good as it did last year. Fuck. He smiles and he watches Eddie’s smooth dark chocolate eyes watch his lips while he eats it. He thinks about all the places on his smooth dark skin that Mickey’s lips have lingered on, he thinks about how he always tasted like he was expensive and out of Mickey’s realm of normal things, out of the reality of Mickey’s life. Mickey ain’t the kind of guy to like expensive things. 

GOOD. It tastes good. It tastes like beach and sun and sand and salt and sex. Nothin’ about that will ever taste bad. But it doesn’t taste perfect. It doesn’t taste like Ian. And if Ian tasted like beach sand and salt and tequila and fuck, fuck that’s too much to think about.  
When the cupcake is gone and the catching up is done and Lou shifts her weight and he knows something’s comin’, but she leans sort of to the side and tells him out of the corner of her mouth that’s lifted with a smirk, “don’t think you’ll have to worry about Alvarez much longer Pretty Boy.”

It immediately straightens his spine and dries his mouth and he’s wishing it didn’t taste like fuckin’ Mexico anymore, “fuck’s that mean?” keeping his voice a low hiss.

Eddie’s smile falters a little and he watches a guard walk past, telling Mickey about his plans for the next building on his resort. And he’s looking into a third location and that shit is okay. That shit is fine. It’s OKAY in front of a guard.

“Means don’t worry about it,” her hand rises to her ear where there’s usually a joint. But not here. It rises, fucks along her hairline. Sure sign she’s about to do somethin’ stupid, “shift the heat off you.”

“Don’t you fuckin’…”

“I ain’t doin’ it for you,” her eyes narrow, voice dropping dangerously low and he knows not to push it, “you just get to reap some benefits,” smirk rising as her hand taps down on his on the table. Just a brief contact, a tiny contact, but it’s ENOUGH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The itch is to just post them all as fast as possible and orphan the work... as I'm going through this one editing it, my emotions are so mixed about it. 
> 
> Safe to say Mickey knows he'll never love anyone the way he loves Ian and he wants to be with Ian but he's still having some trust issues. 
> 
> So Lou's backstory is also in Right There Next To You. Bitch was Mickey's mentor/friend and she had a history with the Alvarez cartel in the form of losing her daughter to cartel violence. Lou was volatile and tough and addicted. She was hard to like but easy to love. She cared for Mickey in ways she never cared for anyone else and she was willing to sacrifice just about anything for him.


	12. Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's thoughts on a few things including little bits of his feelings towards his disorder and Monica. And Monica's influence over his opinions of himself.

Ruined

“So, um,” Ian watches the ceiling from his top bunk. Not sleeping. Not worrying, just wondering, “you had visitors?”

“Yah.”

It’s all grumpy and snappy and exactly what Mickey is when someone asks him personal business, “okay.”

SILENCE. They can talk, they can talk about anything and everything and nothing. They can talk about all of the surface shit that anyone can talk about. They can talk about prison and prisoners. They can talk about the fucking weather and sports and food and movies and whatever the fuck they want. Unless, UNLESS it’s important. Unless it’s US and the BEACH.

Because it wasn’t US and the BEACH. It was SOMEONE else and the BEACH. It could have been ANYONE else and the beach. 

“Just friends,” he finally sighs, “no different than any visitors you’ve had.”

“I know,” and he does. He knows that. It’s not like conjugal visits are a thing anymore. But, fuck, he saw the way that Eddie guy looks at Mickey and he wonders if he looks at Mickey that way, or if he’s ever LOOKED at Mickey that way. He wants to. He wants to look at Mickey like his fucking world revolves around him, because it fucking does. It always will. And he can’t SAY that. He can’t say that. He can’t say that here. Not in here.

“Mick?”

“Jesus, fuck, what Ian?”

It stings. The walls are up. They’ve always been up, haven’t they?

“Under your pillow,” he mumbles, trying not to let it hurt too much. Mickey’s stressed and Mickey’s anxious and he won’t talk about it, he won’t TELL Ian why and Ian KNOWS that. And Ian knows that pushing him and poking him and prodding him and dropping ultimatums and forcing him to fag bash and forcing him to say things he doesn’t want to say don’t work. They DON’T work. And when Mickey is snappy and grumpy and wanting not to talk, then Ian needs to let him NOT talk.

Listening, knowing he’s grinding his eyes. His thumb and forefinger are grinding his eyes. And he takes a deep breath. Knowing he’s blinking. Knowing his hand is dropped over his head now, his fingers are sliding under the pillow. Knowing this, because he knows Mickey. He knows Mickey’s habits and his own little personal tics and traits and special Mickey things. He knows his physical reactions to all the emotional shit he’ll never say. He knows all his body’s reactions to all the NOT talking things. 

And the crinkle of a candy wrapper and a half laugh, half sigh, “fuck you firecrotch.”

“Happy Birthday Mick.”

“Yeah, well, now I gotta feel like a dick for missin’ yours.”

“You didn’t.”

Silence. He’s certain Mick’s lips are pursed and he’s deep in thought, scrolling through his memories for what he must have done. He must have said or done. Something, “yes I fuckin’ did.”

“Fuck you, you think I don’t hear your sleep whispers in my ears?”

“What? Fuck you. I don’t…”

“Well I’m not delusional Mick,” he can feel his face lifting into a smile, knowing what expression Mickey is wearing. He’s wearing that adorable timid smile where he knows he did something sweet, but he’d never admit to doing something sweet.

“Fine. Fuck you want me to say?”

“Nothing,” feeling a full-on grin rising on his face, “you say it all when you wake up, every single morning, and you think I’m still asleep, and you whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

“Sweet nothings,” he snorts.

“Sweet everythings, I’m not sure why they’re called nothings,” fuck, he can’t stop grinning. And he knows Mickey is bright red, and he knows it’s the most adorable fucking thing in this world when Mickey Milkovich blushes. 

“Quit pretendin’ to sleep then asshole.”

“You’d stop if you knew I was awake.”

“Well now I know, so…”

Ian rolls to his belly, leaning his face over the side to look down at Mickey, “don’t stop,” realizing he just ruined something beautiful. Just another beautiful thing about Mickey that Ian RUINED. Just like his TRUST. And his CONFIDENCE. And his LOVE. 

He doesn’t respond, not vocally, but his eyes are soft and his smile is fucking gorgeous. The Snickers bar in his FUCK fingered grasp. If Ian could figure out how to get some surgical lube from the infirmary to the cell. Probably not worth the weeks of cavity searches that would follow if he did get caught. Maybe, he thinks, as Mickey’s brow rises and he grins, maybe it’d be worth it. 

Every single morning for the last at least six months, maybe longer, Mickey’s been waking first. He’s been shifting to his feet and stretching, his eyes lingering on Ian’s face while he works the kinks out his neck from the awful pillow and the awful mattress. His hand lands on Ian’s head, slides through his hair and he leans into his ear to whisper whatever the fuck he feels like whispering on any given morning. Most days it’s just a simple, ‘mornin’ Sleepy Face’, sometimes it’s ‘I love you’ and sometimes it’s something filthy dirty that Ian has so much fucking trouble keeping his sleeping face on, but on his birthday. On his birthday. On HIS birthday, it was a sweet kiss against his temple, a lingering breath of his hair, and a, ‘two years, in two years we’ll celebrate this shit right. However you want, but for now, Happy Birthday Firecrotch. I love you’. Best birthday present Ian has ever received as far as he’s concerned. Mickey’s love. Nothing will ever compare.

In two years. In a little under two years now. Ian knows exactly how he wants to celebrate. He can’t think of anything that could ever make him happier. Better, worse, sickness, health, all that SHIT. We take care of EACH OTHER. 

It hurts in his heart when he remembers Mickey’s face that day. The disbelief and hurt and pain, PAIN that Ian caused and Mickey couldn’t tell him he’d stop loving him, he’d stop wanting him, but he couldn’t tell him he would. He couldn’t take that stand, or make that ultimatum, he couldn’t force Ian to chose between him and managing the disorder. Only way to keep Mickey was to take the control over the disorder that had ripped their hearts out. And Mickey wasn’t about to SAY that. He’d never. He might be a minor con-artist and a thief and a pimp, but manipulating the people he loves, that ain’t his thing.

“Hey Mick?”

Brows up, lips pursed, saying without saying yeah-fucker-you’re-looking-right-at-me.

“I love you.”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down fuckface,” but it breaks a smile on his face and he tears the wrapper on the Snickers, “fuck prison,” cracking the chocolate bar in half, passing one half up to Ian, “thanks.”

He wants to turn it down, tell him the whole damn thing is his and Ian could never give him enough of the things he wants to make up for the shit he gave him that he didn’t want. But he knows, Mickey is sharing his little birthday cake because he wants to share himself. And he doesn’t know how else to do that. 

So Ian takes it. He takes the Snickers and he takes Mickey’s love. The one thing he always wanted until he had it and then he didn’t know what to do with it. It was TOO much. It was stifling and overbearing and Ian didn’t know how to carry all that. 

But now? He smiles over the edge of the bunk at Mickey. The asshole smiles back. And it’s beautiful and whatever he was so grumpy about when he came back to the cell, it’s gone for now. And that’s all that matters. ALL that matters. 

————

By morning he’s pacing around in front of the door. He skipped his sweet nothings. Fuck, Ian slides his hand over his face, he shouldn’t have said anything. He never should have said anything about it, “you sleep at all Mick?”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps pacing. At least there’s no sign of a shiv in his busy hands. Busy making fists and cracking knuckles and making fists and cracking knuckles. 

Ian slides off the top bunk, unfurls his body into a long stretch in the center of the cell. Watching Mickey. Back and forth and back and forth. And he remembers an old dusty yellowed image. The knuckles on the wall, the pacing, the worrying, the waiting, the hoping, fucking hoping. HOPING. That it’s okay and it’s not bipolar and it’s not a lifelong thing and it’s not the end of Mickey and it’s not the end of his life and it’s not a future of meds and fog and worthlessness. 

He sighs, reaching for Mickey’s wrist when he turns on his pacing route, “what’s going on?”

He shakes out of it. Ian knew that. He knew that. But at least his hopes and dreams and promises of future in blue glanced across his face on his way past. At least there’s that. At least there’s that. That’s STILL there.

————

“She’s gonna get herself fucking killed,” he forces it out. 

It’s late. And it’s dark. As dark as it gets in prison. PRISON. And it’s now. It’s now that he’s going to talk.

“Lou. She’s gonna get herself killed just to take the heat off me. And I can’t fuckin’ stop her.”

Because you’re in here with me. Instead of living your life in Mexico, you’re in here with me.

“Fuck. That fucking bitch. She had this fucking plan all along, cut the head off the snake, fucking skin it and whatfuckingever, fucking weird suicidal cocky bitch. She fuckin’ hates the Alvarez boys. Revenge killing, fuck.”

Ian can hear his fingers grinding into his lids, “who, um, who is she?”

“She’s a fuckin’ snarky bitch with a drug habit and a suicidal attitude. Lust for violence and blood. She had revenge on her mind when I met her and I thought I convinced her to let that shit go. I thought by handin’ in the shit I knew, it’d dismantle enough of the cartel. Fuckin’ kill two birds with one stone or some shit. Fuck. I didn’t fuckin’,” he trails off and falls silent for a long time.

Listening to his fidgeting and rubbing and grinding, a heavy breath, “it was you. That fuckin’ shirt. Seein’ the videos. Yeah. It was you. But I thought I could deter that bitch too. Fuck her. I don’t know. Guess I didn’t have enough on Alvarez. Only enough to take down some lower level fucks. Cartels are, fuck, they’re fuckin’ well organized and layered. And fuck. I don’t know. Maybe I thought if enough lower level shitheads were offered deals too, maybe they’d just spill enough gasoline to burn the whole house to the ground, but turns out that dumb bitch is gonna light the match.”

He remembers Fiona. He wonders if she’s happy. If she’s bartending and having fun and living her life without the confines of her siblings relying on her, if she’s got a boyfriend who treats her nice and she actually treats him nice. If she’s happy on the beach. If she’s found the person to light that match. 

Mick can’t blame himself. He can’t blame himself for the actions of a friend. But he will. Mickey has always BLAMED himself. He probably blames himself for Mandy being an escort, working in the sex industry because she realized she was worth no more than that. No more than sex. No more than arm candy for some rich fuck. Maybe her father and her shitty boyfriends proved that to her. Fuck, maybe by now she’s made a fucking fortune and moved on to something else. Maybe she put herself through school by escorting. And maybe she’s working some office job just like all the other millennials with their degrees and college debt. Maybe she’s not happy but merely surviving. Fuck, maybe for a girl who was beaten and raped and convinced her own self worth lay in her sexuality, maybe just surviving is enough. Or maybe she is happy. Maybe she’s got a job she loves and a nice apartment and a few friends to keep the weekend from getting lonely. 

Wherever she is, not a bit of it is Mick’s fault. And wherever Lou is, “she a friend?” it isn’t his fault either.

“Yes. Fuck. I can have friends.”

“I know,” he sighs. Defenses are high. They’re always high. Fuck, they’ll ALWAYS be high. And yeah, part of that is Ian’s fault. It’s his fault for pushing Mickey and poking Mickey and forcing Mickey to bend to his whims and his needs and his wants. 

“Jesus. I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

“Huh?”

“Always bein’ a grumpy fuckin’ prick.”

“It’s one of the things I love the most about you,” and it’s not a lie. And he wishes he was saying it to his face instead of to the prison ceiling. 

“I just,” he sighs, “fuck.”

“I know.”

He can’t control it. Mickey can’t control it. He can’t CONTROL any of the bad shit that happens to the people he loves. And that pisses him off. It pisses him off that he’s never had control over his own life. Maybe in Mexico. But even then, he was under the thumb of a cartel. Whether it was Terry or his love for Mandy or his love for Ian or his plain old survival, it was never control. It was never his CHOICE.

“I just,” he starts again. Stops. Waits. Footsteps on the catwalk. WAITS. This is what prison is about. 

Mouth and ass rapings. Anyone can handle that shit.

His stomach clenches and threatens to bring up dinner from hours ago. Churning with REGRET and SELF-LOATHING. 

The monotony, the boredom, the routine, the space, the cell, the yard, the infirmary, the cafeteria, the paranoia, the boredom. The BOREDOM. That’s what will get you in the end. But that’s not true. Maybe for some piece of shit like Terry who thrives on belittling and beating and raping and hurting. Maybe for some piece of shit like Terry who is a big fish in his own home, but he’s not the big fish in prison. Maybe for a piece of shit like Terry. LIKE Terry. 

Ian bites down on his lip when it trembles. This is not the time or place to talk to Mickey about that. This is not the time or place to tell him, TELL him that he went to Terry. TELL him that even after he saw the scars and the bruises and the rape, he SAW the RAPE, he saw what it did to Mickey. He SAW it. That he still went to Terry. Ian still went to Terry. For what? Fuck. 

And Ian said, the shit he said, the shit he said about Mickey when Mickey wasn’t around. He’s crazy. He’s fucked up. He’s abusive. He’s toxic. He’s TOXIC. Fuck. Toxic! Kash, a married closeted father employer predator. Ned, a married closeted father predator. Caleb, HIV status after sex cheater bisexual questioning Ian’s sexuality. Trevor, manipulative controlling undermining intrusive dramatic self-centered and self-serving. 

And Mickey? Loved Ian even when it was detrimental to his own well-being. Loved Ian when Ian couldn’t love himself. Loved Ian when Ian was too much and too little. Loved and protected and chased after and threw himself into the fire for Ian. LOVED Ian. He LOVED Ian when it got him beat and raped and belittled and threatened and put him behind bars. He LOVED Ian. 

“I love you,” again. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s barely above a whisper when he wants to shout it. He wants to tattoo it on his chest and he wants to wear it on his ring finger. And Mickey’s going to get sick of hearing it. He’s going to get snappy and grumpy and Ian doesn’t fucking care. As long as he doesn’t leave. 

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Even when I’m manic and depressed and crazy and you’re waiting for me to do my next stupid shit. Even when I’m medicated and foggy. Even when I’m balanced and on a routine and doing the right things. Even when I’m working an honest job and making a living and loving what I do. Even when I’m behind bars. When I’m behind fucking bars. Don’t leave me.

Fuck, he should have said that. He should have said that. He SHOULD have said that. Sitting on the porch steps in the cold. Convincing himself no one would love him. No one would love him through the disorder. No one wanted him. No one WANTED him. It was a fucking LIE. It was a lie of the disorder and of Monica and of their childhood. It was a lie of the symptoms and the psych ward and the military prison and the road trip with his batshit mother and his lying mother and his unreliable mother. But she was his MOTHER. She was his MOTHER. 

Just like Terry was Mickey’s FATHER. And if Monica could make Ian believe the lies. Then Terry could make Mickey believe the lies. For years, for fucking years. And how often does Ian still hear her? How often does he still hear her lies in his ears and through the glass at the military prison and in the diner. How often does he still hear her? 

So how often does Mickey still hear Terry?

All the fucking time. All the time until Ian can convince him otherwise. Until the one person Mickey has ever loved can convince him that he’s worth loving. Mickey is WORTH loving. He ALWAYS was. He ALWAYS will be.

————

It’s days later or weeks later or months later and no one knows and no one cares and no one visits and time is weird here. But every morning with Mickey. Every night with Mickey. Every half smile and all smile and half laugh and all laugh. Every single fucking moment is worth it. And he wonders, he thinks about it, he wonders if he should do something, what he should do, how he could do it, what exactly he could do to get just a little more time added. Just the last six months. Just so that they’re here together for the rest of it. TOGETHER. For the rest of it. He doesn’t want to be on the outside without Mickey. He doesn’t want to be anywhere without Mickey. ANYWHERE. 

But one day, one day when he comes back from the infirmary, when he comes back at his usual time, when Mickey is usually at class, at the class that he secretly loves and he can secretly make a living from when he gets out and he’s fucking good at it, and Ian loves the ink in his chest and he loves that if he looks hard enough he can still see his name in the shadows and he’s always lurking there in the shadows and he’s permanent. He was always PERMANENT.

But he’s there. Mickey is already there. He’s sitting at the desk in the chair he hates and he’s got a letter in his fist. And he’s rubbing his eyes and he’s blinking and he’s hiding his face. And Ian knows. He knows without needing to say, he knows without needing to hear it. He knows. 

And suddenly doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t care if they’re here or there or locked up or free or surrounded by homophobes or saints or devils or fairies or fuckin’ Shim it’s stupid fucking self was sitting right here telling him not to in all it’s delusional glory. He doesn’t give a fuck. Not about any of it.

He gives a fuck about Mickey. He gives a fuck about leaning over him, and wrapping his arms around his chest and leaning his face into his neck and holding him. And HOLDING him. And letting him cry. He’s letting him cry. And he’s not asking and he’s not telling and he’s not judging and he’s not prying. Because he knows. He KNOWS. 

He knows that Mickey’s fear of losing a friend. Mickey’s FEAR is no longer a fear. It’s a fact. It is a FACT. He lost a friend. Maybe the only friend he’s ever had. What has Mickey had for friends? He lost a friend. And now he’s blaming himself. And Ian will never know the details and that’s okay. But he knows, he KNOWS Mickey. And he knows that what Mickey needs right now and for a long time, for the rest of the mourning period, he knows what he needs is a friend. He needs Ian to be a FRIEND. Maybe the friend he was way back at the start. At the beginning. At the BEGINNING when he was pleading with Mickey to stay out of trouble, when he wanted him to stay out of juvie, when he wanted him to get a job and have a life outside of crime and his family. And it wasn’t for Ian’s selfish reasons back then. It was FOR Mickey. It was FOR Mickey’s happiness and stability and freedom and a chance. They had a CHANCE back then. Maybe it was the only time they had a chance. 

Until NOW. 

And right now. RIGHT now. Right here. In this exact moment, Ian is going to be the FRIEND that Mickey NEEDS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, yeah, guess I killed Lou. 
> 
> That is most likely the last chapter for today. I'm going screen blind, so I apologize for any shitty editing! Thanks again for the company and making your way through this big ol' pile of shit with me :)


	13. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Animal Kingdom's Deran Cody. I introduced the two of them in Right There Next To You. Their's was a healing journey on a certain level for them both. Deran was Lou's half brother by way of deadbeat father. For this instance he is simply the brother of a dead friend of Mickey's.

Friend

“I just keep thinkin’ about when I met her,” he forces his voice not to shake while he watches those twinkly blue eyes that look so much like hers, it’s breathtaking.

“Shotgun or Glock?” he sighs, his face twists and he drops eye contact.

“Fuckin’ Browning Superposed.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” half-smile, looking anywhere but Mickey.

The air is damp. Misty. Cool for this late in Spring, “I was passed out on the beach. Woke up to the barrel in my gut. She told me I could either work for her or die right there.”

His hands slide through his blonde hair and his breath catches for a moment, just a moment, eyes on the table, “it was a Glock when I met her. She broke into my place. Searched through my shit. Was looking for Billy.”

“Your dad.”

“Yeah,” his eyes fill and he blinks it away, “piece of shit.”

Preachin’ to the choir, “yeah.”

“Fuck,” deep breath through his nose, pushing his hair that’s long again, out of his face, “she was going to get herself killed somehow,” eyes rising finally, lingering on Mickey’s, “at least this way she died for something instead of OD’ing,” he shrugs, hands on the table.

Fuck, he wants to reach out, he wants to touch him, squeeze his hand. He lost a sister. He’s already lost two siblings before this. He knows how this works. 

“She had some shit for you. I, ah, wasn’t about to leave it with your family.”

“Good.”

“So, I’ve got it. It’s locked up. I’ll hang onto it. Until, ya know, just get a hold of me.”

“Yeah.”

They both fall silent. Watching their hands. Watching their hands on the table between them. Deran’s ready to roll a joint. Mickey’s ready for a fight. Always. Always READY. Fuck, he ain’t ready for this fight, “at least Emma’s got her mom back,” Deran whispers it. His eyes flicker up to Mick’s and he can’t control it, or stop it. His hand brushes over Deran’s. Quickly. But it’s enough. His eyes fill and he nods, “thank you. You know, for being her friend.”

“She was my friend,” it’s barely above a whisper. And it shakes. 

————

My friend. MY friend. My FRIEND. 

Face in his hands, sitting on the bottom bunk. Cell door is wide open. And he doesn’t give a fuck anymore. The salt and snot are flowing freely. And he doesn’t give a FUCK anymore. 

He hears it. He hears it when fellow prisoners walk past. He hears it when guards walk past. He hears it. He hears it and he still doesn’t care. He doesn’t CARE. If this makes him weak, or pathetic, or wounded, or easy prey, he doesn’t fucking care. And when it’s Ian. When it’s Ian that he hears coming. And he hears him coming from the other side of the fucking prison. He hears him coming and he feels him coming and he KNOWS he’s coming. And he’s kneeling on the floor in front of him and his hands are on Mickey’s knees and he’s trying not to get too close. He CAN’T get too close. The door is open. It’s broad lighting. Anyone and everyone outside could be inside. Anyone and everyone can see this. And he KNOWS that. 

And he should get up, and he should wipe his face, and he should pretend this never happened and he should never let Ian touch him when the door is open or when the lights are on or when there are other people around or in this fucking place. This fucking place. This fucking place. THIS fucking place. Where he can’t say the things he wants to say and he can’t do the things he wants to do and he can’t TOUCH and he can’t FEEL and he can’t REACH for Ian. 

But he is. He’s reaching for Ian. And Ian is leaning. He’s leaning TOWARDS Mickey. His forehead contacts his shoulder as Mickey’s grip clamps down on the front of his jumpsuit. He takes a deep breath. Just one. Just ONE. Only one. Just enough. Enough to clear his head and steady his mind. 

And he pushes. He pushes Ian away and he gets to his feet. Leaning his head against the top bunk. While he breathes. He breathes back the salt of tears and he breathes back the WORRY and REGRET and ANGER and FEAR. He breathes it back and takes the scent of Ian from the blankets on the top bunk. And takes the presence of Ian from behind him. Behind him where he knows he’s already turned around, where he’s already watching the door. Where he’s already keeping himself between Mickey and any incoming threats. Where he’s watching the door when Mickey can’t. 

————

Then it’s light’s out. And he CAN’T. He can’t anymore. He can’t push when he wants to pull. He CAN’T pretend when he wants to be honest and real and open. He can’t shut it all off. He can’t. 

It’s lights out and Clapton has already walked by. And he’s already looked in. And he’s already nodded. And he already knows they’re both in here for the night. And they’re locked in. And they’re not going anywhere. And they won’t try to kill each other. Or break out. Or do whatever the fuck else they could possibly be doing that would require a guard to stop it. 

No, they’re not doing that. 

They’re doing this. Because LIFE is fucking short. And LOVE is fucking unfair. And if it’s GOOD it will be BAD soon enough. So the GOOD has to be CHERISHED. 

And when Ian’s underneath him and they’re face to face and he’s watching, he’s watching what his every move does to Ian’s eyes. And he’s watching what his every move does to Ian’s face. And he feeling what his every move does to his breath and to his body and to his heart. And he’s seeing it, he’s seeing how deeply Ian is feeling it all. How deeply he’s FEELING and LOVING. And when he lifts his head and his hands slide behind Mickey’s and he draws him near, when their lips meet and their tongues meet and their breath becomes one breath and one inhale and one exhale and every single part of them is one person. When those lines are blurred and nothing else exists. When their world is nothing but this moment. This moment. THIS moment. 

When nothing in their past exists and nothing in their future matters and this is it. This is all there is. This is all there ever was. THIS.   
And he stays there. He stays there. Clamped between Ian’s legs and wrapped in his arms. With his heart under his cheek and sweat the only thing between them. He STAYS there. He stays exactly THERE. And he wishes and he hopes and he’d fuckin’ pray if he believed any of that shit. And he dreams and he pretends and he wonders. If this is it. If this could be it. If this could be ALL of it. 

Then Ian’s hands slide through his hair and his face tilts. And his lips press and his breath shudders against Mickey’s ear. And he knows. And they both know. And he KNOWS. It’s time. It’s time now. It’s TIME. It’s about time and it’s prison. And the world is still crashing around them. And the world is still moving outside this cell. And the world doesn’t want to and won’t and can’t wait for them. For them to have this. To HAVE this moment. And the rest of their lives. The REST of their LIVES.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I know I will kick myself for is not fleshing out Lou's death and her actual act to get the heat off Mickey. He said he was working for her while in Mexico so we can say she was deeper in the cartel and had more connections and more ways to bring them down. And they caught up with her. I guess the only real way to reveal any of it would be a chapter from her perspective, which would kill the story flow.


	14. Wishing

Wishing

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to move. He WANTS to stay here all night with Mickey laying on his chest and his hair tucked under his chin and his breath trailing across his skin. He wants to stay here with his limbs wrapped around Mickey. Gripping tight, tight enough to indent him into Ian’s flesh. He’s certain of this. He needs Mickey to be indented in his flesh and his blood and his soul. He needs to carry his body and his presence and his entire fucking being around with him when he gets out. When he gets out. Fuck. When he gets OUT. 

He takes a deep breath that quivers with the words he should say and the apologies that he’ll probably never say and all that he can say is, “don’t go,” and his hand is resting in Mickey’s hair and it’s the most incredible thing that has ever been at his fingertips. And feeling this, feeling Mickey, FEELING Mickey inside his body like he’s always lived there the way he’s always lived inside Ian’s mind. 

Mickey sighs and his hand leaves the place it’s been pressing prints into Ian’s shoulder blades and thumbs his nose and he doesn’t go. Not just yet. The skin between them is wet. The place where his cheek is resting on Ian’s heart, it’s wet. It’s wet with tears and pain and worry and regret and fear and SADNESS. And his face is turned towards the wall and Ian is wishing the prison darkness was lighter and that’s the first time he’s ever wished that. He’s wishing he had Mickey here in his arms and his legs and in his body in a bright light where he could see every single instance of his flesh. But fuck, then Mickey would see every single instance of Ian’s flesh. And the scars. The scars that he’ll ALWAYS blame himself for. No matter what Ian says. 

His weight shifts. It shifts and Ian flinches. Don’t go. DON’T go. Please don’t go. But he has to. He has to go. He HAS to. His breath shakes when he pulls out and Mickey is quick to press a kiss against his chest. 

But now he won’t look at him. He won’t look at him. He won’t make the eye contact when he’s PULLING away. He won’t watch him when he’s denying his request. When he’s denying his ‘don’t go’. When he’s denying his ‘don’t’. It was always ‘don’t’. 

They redress in silence and they don’t look at each other and they don’t speak to each other and they don’t touch each other and they don’t feel each other. 

Then they’re in their own bunks and it’s the listening again. It’s the listening to the breathing and the shifting and the guard walking past and the noise. The noise that doesn’t stop even in the dead of night. The noise. Gallagher noise was a comfort. All his life. Prison noise. Fuck. 

His breath shakes again and he hears Mickey wonder, “you good?”

No. But I’m the one that should be asking you that. I’m the one that should be asking if you’re good. If you’re okay. If you’re sad or mad or hurt or lonely. If you’re guilty and blaming yourself and you’re missing her and you’re wishing you had seen her one more time and you’re wishing you had hugged her one more time and you’re wishing you had told her something worth remembering because fuck knows what your last shared words were.

“Yeah,” it’s a sigh and it’s a lie. A LIE, “better when we get out.”

“Yah,” he’s grinding his eyes and he’s going to divert the attention and he’s going to make this about something else instead of his own pain, “when there’s lube.”

How many times was there no lube for Mickey? How many times did Ian just spit in his hand and push into him? How many times did he rush and thrust and hurry and hold Mickey’s hands down when that sting was enough to fist them up and smash them down on something. Anything. And how many times did he convince himself Mickey liked it. He liked it that way. He LIKED it. He only liked it to hurt because he hated himself. He HATED himself and Ian only proved that he should. That he SHOULD hate himself. 

And Ian hates himself. He hates himself for not realizing that and not noticing that and not treating Mickey the way he should have been treated from the start. And not loving him and adoring him and taking the fucking time to make sure it felt good. That it felt good because Mickey DESERVED pleasure. And ‘what’s in it for me?’ should have been, ‘fuck yes Mick I’ll do that for you, I’ll do that for you because you deserve to have the things you want’. 

Fuck, “I want to give you the things you want.”

“Huh?”

“Like all of it. Everything you want.”

“Okay tough guy,” his voice is soft and laced with amusement and disbelief, “get some sleep.”

“No,” he rolls, leaning over the edge of the bunk, focusing immediately on Mickey’s eyes. They’re twinkling and it’s NOT anticipation of having everything he’s ever wanted, “I’m not kidding. I want to give you everything you want. I don’t want to let you down and I don’t want to hurt you and I don’t want to be the one who breaks your heart ever again Mick.”

Fuck, skeptical. That’s what that look is. Like he’s trying to see what’s in it for Ian. What could Ian get out of these promises. Which part of this is about Ian? All of it? Has it ever been about Mick? Has Ian always been this self-centered? 

“I’m serious. So let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about it sometime. Doesn’t have to be tonight. But let’s start with the little things. Where do you want to live? Obviously ‘till we’re both off probation it’ll have to be Chicago. But after that? The world is the limit,” he feels himself smile when Mickey’s lips rise to half-assed sort-of smile, “maybe. I think. You have like a ‘no international travel’ somewhere in the fine print of your deal?”

“Fuck you firecrotch that shit would be bold print front and center.”

“Okay, so the world. Wherever in the world you want to live. We can make that happen. I mean, so I get my job back as a medic and I study my ass off and I work my ass off and maybe I’ll go to nursing school someday. Maybe not. But medical professional is something that’s needed in every single part of the world. And maybe we could travel. I could get a travel nurse job. And you could just live, you could just do whatever the fuck you want, we could see some shit. Or at least within the States. I don’t know if there’s such thing as nurse jobs that travel outside the States, like more than volunteer, or like where family can come along or whatever. But,” he shrugs and feels his smile getting wider as Mickey’s eyes linger on his mouth, “even just this country.”

“How ‘bout you let that orgasm gloss dial back a bit? Then make life plans.”

“It’s not just a stupid bipolar thing Mick.”

“I know.”

“I just,” he sighs, “we spent our entire youth doing things backwards. I want us. I want us no matter what form it takes. But I really want us to be happy. You. I want you to be happy. You deserve that.”

“Yeah, okay,” he grunts it, “well between now and then, how ‘bout we get some sleep?”

If he could reach him, Mickey would be tapping his cheek right now. He’s got that look on his face. That one that’s a mix of disbelief and hope. HOPE, like maybe he’ll change his mind, standing on the border, hoping he’ll change his mind. 

But this isn’t the border.

Ian smiles, “I mean it.”

“I heard you.”

“Okay,” and he can say it a million fucking times but the only thing that will ever prove it is doing it. The only thing that can ever prove to Mickey that he deserves happiness and LOVE is if Ian does it. And does it for the rest of his life. 

————

By morning he’s certain Mickey still didn’t sleep. He’s lying on his back in his bunk. Watching the picture that’s pinched between his fingers. Watching it like it’ll tell him something. Like it’ll just whisper all of life’s secrets to him. 

“Mornin’,” he offers quietly when he stretches out some kinks and takes the steps to the pisser.

“Yeah. Mornin’,” he grunts. Not bothering to turn his head or move. 

Tucking himself back in, making his way to the bunk, sitting beside Mickey. Wishing, wishing, WISHING he could trace the line of his jaw. Wishing he could tilt his face. Wishing he could press lips to lips. 

“Just wish, you know, wish I knew if she was alone or scared or…” his voice trails off, fingers rise to his eyes, handing the picture to Ian and half-smiling, “she was probably high as fuck and didn’t feel damn thing.”

“She was really beautiful,” it’s not a lie. 

“I know. But god forbid someone tell her that,” his fingers are still in his eyes.

He wants to say, it reminds him of someone else he knows. God forbid someone compliment a Milkovich. But he doesn’t, “you, surf?”

“Fuck no. She thought she could teach me,” he laughs now, “I’m more of a solid land kinda guy.”

They’re sitting on a board in the sand in this picture. Cross-legged and laughing, facing one another. Fuck, Mickey looks gorgeous. Lit up in sunshine, the power of the ocean in the background. Lit up by a carefree smile. The power of his happiness right there, right there in front of Ian. His finger traces over the expression in the photo and he wishes and he wonders and he hopes. HOPES he’ll see that smile. He’ll see that smile with his own eyes one day. 

“That the resort beach?”

“Eddie’s resort. Yah.”

“Looks nice.”

“Sure. If you’re into expensive shit and naive tourists.”

“That where you sold?”

“Most part, yeah. Eddie was the big sell. Tourists would buy, but Lou was better at the discretion they wanted. That, and, who the fuck would turn down that smile, huh? Fuck knows how many divorces that smile caused,” he sighs. At least his fingers have left his eyes. At least his eyes have blinked away the fog. At least his eyes have landed on Ian’s face. And he admits, “fuck, I think I miss her already.”

Ian doesn’t know what to say. Maybe there is nothing to say. Maybe the deep ache of losing someone you love, maybe there are no words or no bandaids or no comfort for that. Instead his hand lands on Mickey’s shoulder. It squeezes and he reaches to tuck the photo into the frame of the bunk. Silently checking off in his mind the photos that are taped to the wall by the desk. The Gallagher siblings. The Milkovich siblings. And all the snapshots he should have kept, he should have printed, he should have stared at while Mickey was gone. All the selfies that Mickey was too grumpy to take with Ian even when he begged. All the images of Mickey with his middle finger in front of his face while Ian’s grin is splitting his face in half. Such a stubborn ass. That one time, that only time in his life that he had what he wanted and he fucked it up. He had Mickey and he had Yev and they lived together and they were HAPPY. And Ian fucked that up.


	15. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Mickey's thoughts. Brace yourself...

Nightmares

It’s the dreams. The dreams of the beach and the resort and the skin. It’s the dreams of the food and the drinks and the drugs. It’s the dreams of the sun and the waves and the tourists. It’s the dreams turning into nightmares. Nightmares where she’s holding her neck, her hand is grasping her neck and blood is pouring out, between her fingers and down her chest. It’s nightmares where she’s full of bullet holes and on her knees. It’s nightmares where she’s bound and chained and whipped and beaten and bloodied. It’s NIGHTMARES. It’s a DREAM turned NIGHTMARE.

Just like every other dream he’s ever allowed himself to have. If it’s good it will be bad soon enough.

And it’s waking in the night soaked in sweat with the images swirling and the thoughts swirling and his stomach churning and his fists clenched and his breath caught. 

Sometimes he’s leaning over him, or his face is just a distant blurry outline leaning over the edge of the bed, and sometimes he’s whispering, “it’s alright Mick.”

And sometimes he’s waiting and waiting until his vision is clear and his breathing is even and the sweat is starting to dry and he’s watching him, and he’s saying, “I love you.”

Then sometimes it’s touching. It’s sitting on the edge of his bunk and it’s rubbing his arm and it’s touching his face and it’s leaning against him and it’s leaving a kiss on his forehead before he climbs back up. 

And one time he climbs back up and he disappears and Mickey can’t shake it, he can’t shake the LONELY. Even though he’s right there. He’s always right there. He is always right fucking there even when Mickey doesn’t want him right there. But this time, it’s this time. This time that he climbs up, he needs to feel. He NEEDS to feel less alone. He needs the heat and the breath and the comfort. And he needs the life. He needs the moment. He needs the softness and the understanding and the silence. The silence beyond the breathing and the prison noises. He needs the silence. The silence of understanding and waiting. The silence of patience. 

The sloshing of his heart under Mickey’s ear and the feel of his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and the inhales and exhales and softness in his touch. The comfort. He needs the comfort of NOT being ALONE. 

And he stays there. He stays there. They BOTH stay there. Until morning. When the world comes crashing back in and the alarm sounds and it’s morning. It’s just another morning when their cell door is opening and they didn’t open it. When the tiny bit of privacy they have is gone and it’s not their choice. 

But it’s different now. It’s suddenly different. Being close in the cafeteria and in the yard and in the gym and every single fucking place they go. Being close. It’s not overbearing and suffocating. It’s not terrifying and crawling on his skin. There are no accidental brushes of skin on skin. There are no accidental touches. There are NO accidents. 

————

And then it’s him, it’s him with his luscious brown eyes, with cheeks stained in salt of tears. It’s him with his endearing and annoying, “you need sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he sighs, “you couldn’t have stopped her. No one could. She was never happy in her human form Mikhailo. Always chasing the thrill and the love and the high and the lust. Always looking for the reason, her reason for existence when her reason for existence was in the ground.”

He watches his eyes. His eyes that are dull and bright, they’re mournful and lustful, they’re exotic and plain. 

“You need good food,” and the endearing is gone and it’s only annoying.

“Ain’t gonna find that around here Eddie.”

“You need good love,” when the smile rises and the annoying is gone and it’s only endearing, “you have good love?”

And he thinks for a moment. For just a moment. He thinks about his smile and his laugh. The things he always loved, the things that always brought him back, the things that KEPT calling him back. He thinks about his anger and his ultimatums. The things that made him do the things he didn’t want to do because he couldn’t bear losing that smile. He thinks about his hopefulness and belief in happy endings. He thinks about that naive kid in the dugout under the glow of the ball field lights. 

“Yeah, always.”

“Good Mikhailo,” he smiles and his foot discretely contacts Mickey’s leg under the table and he winks, “good. Hang onto that. Life will take that from you as soon as it gets a chance.”

————

Then it’s the cell. And he’s thinking about Lou and he’s thinking about Deran and he’s thinking about Eddie and he’s thinking about the beach and the sandals and the tequila. And he’s wishing, he’s dreaming, he’ll always be wishing he had just said yes. 

Yes, I’ll come with you. Damn the meds and the stability and my siblings and my boyfriend. Damn the job and the city and the country. Damn the WHOLE lot of consequences. Because the only thing that matters, the only thing that EVER mattered was US. And it could be US and the beach and the tequila and the resort and the streets and the shitty motels and whatever the fuck it became because it would still be US. 

And maybe back then it wasn’t this only reason, Ian wasn’t his only reason for breaking out. Maybe it was the bars and the cinderblock and the fag-beatings and the ink on his chest and Svetlana’s deals and the retribution and the dominance games and the whole fucking lot of it. And maybe in juvie he could turn that shit off or maybe juvie was never that bad. But looking at him, looking at him through the glass, LOOKING at Ian through the glass was too fucking hard. It was TOO fucking hard. And he never told him that, he never said it, he never said it was TOO fucking hard to see you letting the disorder win. It was too fucking hard seeing you letting it run your life and your future and your dreams and your hopes and your love. You let the disorder ruin US. And he never said that.

Now. Now sitting in the chair that Mickey fucking hates and every time he walks in the cell he flips it the bird and every time he looks at it he’s wearing a scowl and every time he runs a finger over the scar on his knuckle, it’s still claiming ‘I won’. And the only reason he doesn’t punch it again, the only reason he doesn’t punch it until his hand is nothing more than raw meat, the only reason he doesn’t rip himself apart in here by any means necessary. The only REASON is Ian.

And Ian is sitting in the fucking chair and he’s penning another letter and when he looks up he smiles, and he says, “Sue thinks she can pull enough strings to get me back in my old job. She’s climbed a few more rungs in the ladder, so she’s got more influence than she used to.”

“Good,” and it’s not a lie. That’s good. It’s a good thing. It’s a GOOD thing.

“Yeah,” and he sighs now, setting the pencil down and turning sideways on the fucking chair to look at Mickey, “you, um…”

“Had a visitor. Yes. Fuck.”

The dumb fucker smiles. And it’s fuckin’ dopey and it’s like that stupid naive kid who came to see him in juvie. Fuck him. 

But now Mickey smiles back, he feels it flicker across his face right before his hand rises to rub it off and he turns away, “fuck that chair.”

“I know. Fuck me if you want.”

“Yeah, well maybe after lights out.”

————

“Parole board next week,” he admits it all breathy and barely a whisper against Mickey’s face.

Like he couldn’t wait a single fucking second longer and just let Mickey finish them both off and get back to his own fuckin’ bunk and relax. He’s gotta tell him when he’s balls deep and biting his lip to keep himself fuckin’ quiet and keeping one eye on the window and keeping the other eye on Ian to make sure he ain’t uncomfortable. 

Fuck him, “you turn into a fuckin’ chick? Gotta talk during sex or what? Fuckin’ focus and get this over with.”

“Get it over with?”

“Yeah. This is fuckin’ prison.”

“I know,” now it’s getting all timid again. TIMID. That fucking thing that Mickey doesn’t know if it came from shitty parenting or shitty neighborhood or shitty genetics or making shit choices that came back to bite him in the ass. TIMID. 

Fuck. He pulls out, watches the wince on Ian’s face and for some fucking reason doesn’t care. 

Dressing. Feet on the floor. He’ll jerk off later. Fuck this.

His hands are on the bunk next to Ian. He’s redressed himself and he’s staring at the ceiling. 

SILENCE. It’s always the fucking silence. 

“Fuck,” fingers in his eyes, “so parole,” blinking, blinking Ian into focus.

“Yeah. So, what? Month or so left?”

“Guess so.”

“And you have six months?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Parole. I’ll live in the Gallagher house until I can find something affordable. I’ll try for the medic job first and if that doesn’t pan out, then I’ll bag groceries or something and try to get into maybe a vocational school or something. I could work a trade job. Decent money, physical work would be good for me. Once I have the job ironed out, I’ll look for a place. You, um,” he lifts his head now, eyes bright in the fuckin’ light darkness, “you want a certain neighborhood? Have preference on, um, you know, like bedrooms?”

“You just assumin’ I’m going to move in with you?”

“Well, I just, I thought, I mean, if we’re both fresh out of prison… it’s like a halfway house, right? Living with someone who…”

He feels his eyebrows rise as he watches Ian.

“Oh. You’re fucking with me. Are you fucking with me?”

“Fuck, Ian,” he smirks, “what’s this fuckin’ chick shit?”

“Sorry,” he half-laughs, “stupid shit. I know. I just, it feels like maybe we only have one more chance to do things right.”

“Probably. Don’t mean you gotta grow some fuckin’ ovaries over it.”

His eyes are so fucking twinkly, it’s fucking ridiculous, “so one bedroom?”

“You really think after being locked up in this shithole with your ginger bullshit, I’m gonna want two bedrooms? Waste of fuckin’ money. Fuck. Just find some fuckin’ dump that’s in the fuckin’ budget or fuckever, move your fuckin’ shit in and fuckin’ wai…” it chokes off. His fingers rise and grind. 

Sure Mick, I’ll wait.

Spots and universes and explosions and swirls and a knife in his fucking heart that maybe will never stop being there. Blackness and colors and the orbiting of planets and a beam of light bursting into his skull. 

He hears him move. He HEARS Ian move. He hears him shift. And he feels him. He feels his fingers wrapping around his wrist, wrapping gently but tight, and tugging, pulling his hand away from his eyes. Waiting. WAITING. Waiting while Mickey blinks and blinks and forces the stinging back and forces the worry and insecurity and pain back where it belongs. Hidden. Where it belongs. 

“Wait for you,” he finishes the sentence when his other hand slides through Mickeys fingers. His fingers, his fingers that Mickey never should have let wrap around his in the Kash N Grab so many fucking years ago, his fingers bend around Mickey’s hand, “I’m waiting for you. In every way possible. I want to. I want you. I want us. Only us.”

He feels himself nod. He feels himself breathe. He feels himself believe that. Fuck, it wasn’t like it mattered that much when they were young and they were both fucking other people. Fucking old dudes and chicks and ROTC dudes and dudes in juvie. It didn’t fuckin’ matter then. It only mattered, it only mattered, it MATTERED when Mickey came out for Ian. He came out FOR Ian. And he thought they were happy. He thought he was giving Ian the fucking things he wanted from Mickey. He thought that living together and raising Yev together and doing all the stupid fucking domestic shit that Mickey never wanted, he thought that was enough. He thought it was ENOUGH. He thought riding out the disorder and proving and showing he LOVED Ian through it, he KNEW Ian through it, he SAW Ian through it. He thought that was enough. He thought if he gave everything he had to Ian. Fuck, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Mickey never had enough. And it was never so obvious as that night in the club. That fucker telling him they’d be as boring as straight people if they couldn’t fuck around behind each other’s backs. What the fuck does that even mean? 

You’re not free.

You’re not free until you come out and stop fucking other people. Just so I can still fuck other people. 

Fuck.

“Okay.”

Only way to know now, is to see it happen. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll find a fuckin’ boyfriend who takes him out on real dates while Mickey’s still locked up. And maybe he won’t. Maybe he will wait. Maybe he’ll get his job or he’ll go to school and he’ll find a place and he’ll wait. Six months ain’t that long. They’ve been in here together for two fuckin’ years and haven’t been fucking. Not really. So what the fuck is six more months anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sue? That her name?
> 
> I also can't remember exactly what the guy in the club said because all I could focus on was how broken Mickey sounded in that exact moment of 'I came out for you, you piece of shit'. And I couldn't watch it again. 
> 
> Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong about either of those things. Or just deal.


	16. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh this is happening tomorrow? Are we ready for this?

Tomorrow

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is it. TOMORROW is the day he’ll walk out of here. He’ll walk out of here a free man. He’ll leave Mickey behind. But only because he has to. He doesn’t want to. But he knows. He KNOWS now that the only way either of them can have their shit together is if they both do. If Ian gets out, gets a stable life started with a stable job and a stable apartment and he stays that way. He STAYS stable, it’s the only way. It is the only way Mickey will STAY. And Mickey doesn’t have to say it and he doesn’t have to think it and he doesn’t even have to realize it. But it’s TRUE. 

Tomorrow. And Mickey is biting his lip and pacing the cell and it’s lights out and Ian is hoping, he’s hoping he’ll send him out of here with something, anything, everything. He tried, he fought with himself, he wanted to grab a tube of lube at the infirmary on his final shift, but he couldn’t risk it. Part of getting out and starting an honest life, being stable and HONEST. And it has to start now, it has to start two years ago and it has to last. 

“Mick?” 

He stops pacing. He stops. And his brows are up and his lips are pursed and Ian wants to tell him to just say it, to just say whatever he’s thinking, everything he’s thinking, all of it. ALL of it. All the things he never said and all the things he’s worried about. 

“Fuck it,” he dives in. He dives into Ian’s lips and it’s dirty and rough and passionate and all the things Ian was hoping for. And he doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t care WHO sees it or WHO knows it or WHO could possibly fucking care. Prisoners in their cells for the night. Only guards walking past. And Mickey doesn’t fucking care if they know, if they know that this is it. If they tap their batons on the door and remind them to break it up, if they see it, if they see kissing. KISSING. If they see kissing. 

They’ve seen it all in here. They’ve broken it up in here. They’ve broken up rapes and consensual and just for physical release and every other possible meaning of sex. But love? What are the chances that two guys behind bars would find love? What are the chances that it would truly be a real relationship outside? 

And suddenly Mickey doesn’t give a fuck. And Ian can feel that. He can FEEL that. And he can feel Mickey’s tongue and his lips and his teeth and his breath and his hands. His hands that are ripping the jumpsuit off and sliding over flesh and tracing the line of the scar in Ian’s abdomen and when his lips leave Ian’s they slide down his chest and they slide down that scar and they kiss every single surface of it. And they brand heat and passion and lust into Ian’s body, into his skin and into his fibers and into his muscles and sinew and blood. The blood in his veins is pumping Mickey through his system and rushing in his ears and his head and making his eyes blur. His lips slide over Ian’s cock and envelope him in warmth and tingles and longing. And his fingers are sliding to his ass and fuck, he wishes they had lube. He should have just stolen it. Fuck.

But it’s Mickey. It’s Mickey and he’s being gentle and caring and loving and tender and he’s slow and easy and taking his fucking time. And it stings as much as it feels fucking great, and it feels fucking great because he knows, he knows what he’s getting next. And he’s ready for it, he’s ready for that stretch and ache and tingle and feeling of his entire body being filled by Mickey. 

And Mickey doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop working his fingers and he doesn’t stop working his throat until Ian comes and Mickey rolls it around in his mouth and spits it into his hand and slathers it on his own dick. And it’s somehow the sexiest fucking thing Ian has ever seen and when he presses on Ian’s shoulders he bends willingly and he knows Mickey can’t do this face to face. He can’t do this face to face right now. Because fuck Mickey if he shows how much he fucking cares just to have Ian leave him in the morning. Even if not by choice. Even if NOT by choice. Even if this time it’s not by CHOICE. He’s still leaving. He’ll still be the one walking away. He’s always the one walking away. 

And sure, Mick, I’ll wait. And yes, Mick I’ll wait. And, “fuck,” as his eyes force themselves shut and every single muscle in his body tenses when Mickey bottoms out. And his face drops into the pillow, the horrible pillow that Ian will not miss in the least, but it smells like Mickey and that makes him want to take it with him. Take it with him for the six months he’ll wait. He wants to take it with him. He doesn’t have anything anymore, nothing that smells like Mickey. And knowing that, knowing this time, this time that scent will be gone for six months, knowing it’ll only be in memories and maybe it’ll tickle in his nose when he goes through his old phone and finds all the selfies, and maybe it’ll tickle in his brain when he finds the one photo, the one that Debbie took and it was a fucking lifetime ago. And it was nothing but it was everything. They were sitting on the porch, on the front porch of the Gallagher house. Debbie took the photo from the doorway, from behind them. They were sharing a smoke and Mickey’s hand was resting on Ian’s lower back. And he doesn’t remember the conversation or the day or the mood, but he remembers the way his hand felt on his back and he remembers the way his shoulder felt leaning against his and he’ll always remember that and he’ll cherish that memory and he’ll make so many more of those stupid insignificant memories with Mickey when Mickey gets out. 

He bites his lip to keep himself from screaming with pain or pleasure or anxiety or hope or love or all of it. ALL OF IT. And Mickey’s hands, his hands are pressing fingertips into Ian’s pelvis and they’re gripping so fucking tight it hurts but it’s the good kind of hurt. It’s the way Mickey has always loved. He has always loved too tight. So tight it hurts. But it HURTS in a good way. It always has.


	17. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting out...

Happy

It happens too soon. It always happens too soon. It will always happen TOO soon.

And yeah, he held him. He held him all fucking night. He held him while he shook and pretended he wasn’t shaking and Mickey pretended he wasn’t shaking and maybe if they were shaking in opposite rhythms then it would be true that they weren’t shaking. 

And he kissed him and he kept kissing him until his lips hurt and his mouth hurt and there was nothing left of him. He kept kissing him until he physically couldn’t kiss him any longer. And then he buried his face in his hair and he stole as much scent as he could. And he felt his breath moving across his bare chest and he didn’t give a shit when the guard tapped the door again. And again. And the stubborn asshole finally just gave up. ‘Cause fuck it, if they’re only a problem when they’re together then they ain’t a problem anymore come morning.

And morning came. It came too fucking quick. And the buzzer buzzed and the door opened and he was walking out. He was walking out. He was walking away. This time with a look, with a look over his shoulder. With a smile and a nod and some mist in his eyes and a look, a look that confirmed, this time. This time I’ll wait. 

And maybe it’ll fuck Mickey in the end, maybe it’ll fuck him again, but he believes it. He BELIEVES it. And he trusts it. He TRUSTS that look. That look like Mickey hung the fucking moon and the sun and every single star in the solar system. And that smile. That stupid fucking dopey ass smile that he knows he’ll be seeing on the other side of the glass. He knows he’ll be seeing at the picnic table when he gets a chance. He knows he’ll be wearing that smile when he calls. When Mickey calls and he answers. When he answers this time. And he’s stable and he’s happy and he’s waiting. And he has his shit together and he has a boyfriend. And that fucking boyfriend is Mickey fucking Milkovich just like it’s always fucking been since they were fucking teenagers just fucking in a dugout, or a store, or behind the bleachers. When they were just teenagers talking about dreams and goals and hopes for the future. When he was fucked for life and Ian didn’t believe that. And now Mickey doesn’t believe that. 

Mickey’s NOT fucked for life. Mickey has a life. He has a life WORTH living when he gets out of here. When he gets out of here and he goes home. He goes home to a shitty apartment with one bedroom and a dopey smiling ginger prick who comes HOME to him every single fucking night. When he gets out of here and he has a guy who loves him and waited for him. And maybe he’ll even get a hold of that Russian whore and see if he can hang out with his baby brother someday. And if he still wants to call him ‘dad’ then that’s just fucking fine. As long as that innocent little life never has to call Terry ‘dad’, then that’s just fucking fine with Mickey. 

And maybe that’s all just fucking FINE. And maybe if it’s BAD it’ll be GOOD soon enough. And maybe if it HURTS it’ll HEAL soon enough. And maybe if it’s TOUGH it’ll be EASY soon enough. And maybe, maybe, just maybe there can be HAPPY. There can be happy without the SAD and MAD and HURT. Maybe HAPPY can be what they are. And maybe that can LAST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we starting to feel better now? I am.
> 
> So He Ain't Heavy won't always be canon for me, sometimes I'll probably still explore Mickey as Yev's father just for the sake of storytelling. But I feel like I can shrug off his relationship with Yev as pretty nonexistent if he's his brother, but I'll get mad at him and at myself if I don't go further with their relationship when he's his dad. 
> 
> We're in the home stretch. Thank fucking christ, 'cause this pace is fucked. 
> 
> So Ian, will you? Wait?


	18. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure Mick, I'll wait...

Forever

It’s only been six hours. It’s only been six hours and he’s not sure. He’s not sure. He’s not sure if it can be six days and then six weeks and six months. He’s not SURE. And he’s not sure because he’s checked his meds a million fucking times already and he hates the way his siblings are looking at him. And they’re looking at him like they’re waiting for him to do his next CRAZY shit and he just wants to go back to Mickey. He just wants to go back to Mickey who doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy or he’s damaged or he’s nothing more than a pretty package. He wants to go BACK. He wants to go back to Mickey.

And then his phone is buzzing in his hand and he knew Mickey would call. He knew he would call. He KNEW it. He already told him. First stop was White Castle. Second was a phone. And when he got back, when he got home, when he got back to the Gallagher house that didn’t feel like home and he can’t remember the last time it did. Maybe it was when Mickey was sleeping on the floor beside his bed every night. And sometimes in his bed by morning. And maybe the last time anything felt like HOME was at the Milkovich house. Or in the van or under the railroad bridge or in that fucking cell. 

“Hey firecrotch.”

“Hey Mick,” and he breathes. He takes a deep breath that passes his mouth and his throat and fills his chest and clears his head, “I miss you.”

And it’s through the glass and he’s sixteen with crutches and a smirk and threats over his Jello, “say that again.”

“I know, you’ll rip my tongue out.”

“No,” he laughs, “say that again.”

“I miss you?”

“Well it ain’t a question.”

He laughs. And he feels okay. He feels OKAY, “I miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

Fuck. He’s smiling. He’s smiling so fucking big that it hurts his face. 

“So, uh, take it slow?”

“Yeah. Yes, get used to the small things at first,” just like Mickey warned him. Get used to the house. Get used to the family. Get used to some fresh air. Take a few days to just be. To just exist outside of the cell and the infirmary and the yard and the cafeteria. To exist in a place where the door opens when you push it open, not when someone else decides it’s time. To exist in a place where you don’t have to worry about shivs and beatings and gang rules and dominance rules. And fuck, if not for Mickey, fuck. Ian never would have made it. He NEVER would have survived the last two and a half years. And fuck, Mickey gave it all up, he gave up the beach and the sun and the tequila and the first taste of true freedom he’s ever had. 

“I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah enough with that shit tough guy.”

“I know,” and he does. He does know. He knows that Mickey loves him too. He always has. He’d never have to say it again in their lives and Ian would still know, “so, um, get a new cellmate yet?”

“Tomorrow mornin’ I guess. Just hope he ain’t…”

“Gay,” Ian cuts him off.

Mickey snickers, “yeah sure. Two and half years with Gay Jesus…”

“Fuck you. The sentence is up and the gloves come off, huh?”

“Hey two and a half years without fuckin’ with you over that? I deserve a fucking medal.”

Fuck, he deserves so much more than that for so many more reasons, “I’ll give ya that.”

Silence, but he can hear him breathing. And he could listen to him breathing, just like that, just like that, for hours or days or weeks or the whole six fucking months he has left. It’s comfortable silence and that’ll happen, that’s going to happen. Because there will be things, there will be times, there will be things that are too hard to say over the phone or don’t need to be said or there is nothing to say. They live in two DIFFERENT worlds right now. And that’s okay. That’s temporary.

“Guess we’ll just sit here and breathe at each other ’til time’s up.”

“What are you wearing?”

He snorts out a half laugh and Ian smiles at the sound of it. 

“Well I looked through some apartment listings.”

“Told you to take it slow man. Don’t stress yourself out.”

“I’m not. I just wanted to scroll through and get an idea of what’s available and what kind of price we’re lookin’ at. Fuck, I wish Fi still owned that building.”

“Yeah. Weird without her at the house?”

“Fucking weird as hell.”

But he knows that. He knows what it’s like to have a sister take off, “yeah.”

“Everyone else is good though. I guess. I don’t know. Lip took the day off to hang out but he’s busy with the kid. Kid’s cute. Debbie and Franny are good. Franny got so big. I don’t know about Carl, he seems kind of, I don’t know, lost. Liam’s in school, haven’t seen him yet.”

“Hmpf.”

“Yeah. So I’ll call Sue tomorrow. Hopefully set up an interview. I’m not banking on it though, don’t worry. Keeping myself grounded and focused.”

“Good.”

“Yeah,” falling silent again. Breathing. And waiting. And breathing. And it’s okay. It’s fine. It’s Mickey. And it doesn’t matter if it’s WORDS or SILENCE. It goes by too quickly. 

And then it’s, “time’s up firecrotch.”

“I love you,” reflex. It’ll be reflex for the rest of his life. Loving Mickey was never a question. Not to Ian. But his actions made Mickey question it. And now his actions have to make Mickey believe it. Every single time he says it and shows it. 

A sigh that’s heavy and relieved and amused and resigned, “love you too.”

And it’s over. The first phone call. It’s OVER. But Ian is still smiling. 

————

He’s not sure how it happens but it happens. It happens. He gets his job back. And he’s not sure HOW. He’s not sure if it’s the brutal honesty through the entire process. He’s not sure if it’s because he sat down at the interview and owned up to his past and explained his diagnosis and told them, he told them, he told them he was probably not the best candidate but he’s the hardest working one. He is the hardest working. He HAS to be. He HAS to work hard every single day to stay stable and stay honest and stay focused. He’s not sure if it’s maturity or honesty or confidence that gets him the job. HIS job. 

And he’s not sure how he found it, but he found it. He found the perfect spot. It’s perfect. And it’ll be even more perfect in three months when Mickey is lounged on the couch or sitting at the pub table or cracking a beer at the counter or standing the middle of the fucking place rubbing and grinding his fucking eyes for whatever reason he could possibly have to blind himself. 

Then it’s two months. And it’s looking at him through the glass and listening to him over the phone and sitting with him at the picnic table and those tiny hugs, those brief hugs they’re allowed. Those quick friendly hugs. And he steals as much Mickey scent as he possibly can every single time. Enough to carry him through the weeks until he can do it again. And it’s not hard this time. It’s not hard at all to see him through the glass. He fucking loves seeing him through the glass. Knowing, knowing without a fucking doubt, KNOWING he’s waiting. 

And it turns out Mickey’s cellmate is some old guy who has spent about his entire damn life behind bars in some form or other and he’s got a serious ‘don’t fuck with’ reputation but he kinda likes Mickey or some shit so Mickey feels pretty much fuckin’ fine with him. 

Or something like that, Ian watches his mouth move and listens to the words and loves the look and the sound and the feel of it. The way it FEELS when he looks at him. When he looks at him. It’s that LOOK. It’s that look. THE look. The one that he’s always worn for Ian. And ONLY Ian. 

Then it’s one month and some friend of a friend of Lip’s that owns a tattoo parlor and he’s looking for someone to rent out the final chair in his place. And he’s okay with waiting. He’s okay with an ex-con. He’s okay with him as long as he’s good at the job. And he is. He will be. 

Holy fuck, and then it’s one day and Ian can’t stay inside his own skin but he has to stay inside his own skin. He HAS to. And he DOES. And he’s not sure how he did it, but it’s the next day and he’s standing in the parking lot in the early Spring damp air and he’s chilly and he’s excited and nervous and maybe a little scared and it doesn’t matter. It’s not like that time, it’s not like that time he was shivering on the porch and he was ripping Mickey’s heart out of his chest. It’s not LIKE that. 

He’s waiting. He’s leaning against the wall and he’s breathing and he’s waiting. And it’s not mania setting in. It’s Mickey. It’s the feeling of MICKEY. It’s the feeling of everything. Of every single part of him past present and future. 

Then it’s Mickey. It’s Mickey’s SMIRK and Mickey’s EYES and Mickey’s FACE. And he’s certain he won’t let him hug or kiss or crush him the way he wants to. So he waits. He leans against the bricks and he waits. He waits for Mickey to come to him. And he expects the loud mouthed thug with the bird in the air and the ‘fuck you, fuck you, and especially fuck you’. And he’s grinning as he’s watching him walk towards him and he’s not the little piece of trash he used to be. But he’s exactly the piece of trash he used to be and he is EXACTLY the one and only person Ian has ever LOVED. 

And he’s fucking smiling at him and he’s in reach, but Ian doesn’t reach. Ian WAITS. He waits. He doesn’t need to put his arm around him or hug him or kiss him or mark his territory. He can look at him and feel his presence and bathe in his nearness without Mickey having to make some grand gesture of affection or some announcement of sexuality or some commitment declaration to get Ian to STAY. Ian is staying. And if Mickey reaches, Ian will be there to hang on. And if he doesn’t reach yet, that’s just fucking fine. 

So he stands there, and they stand there and they fucking grin at each other for five seconds or five minutes or five hours until Mickey finally cocks his head and mumbles, “c’mere.”

And Ian does. But he’s not crashing and overpowering and overwhelming and devouring. Not this time. Not THIS time. Because this time, this time, this time is the first time for the rest of their lives. This time isn’t now or never, this time isn’t desperate to hide or fear of getting caught or if you love me PROVE it. This time isn’t worry that it’ll be over soon. This time isn’t fear of someone walking away. This time, this time he lingers and he TASTES him and he SMELLS him and FEELS him. And he HOLDS him. 

And yes, of course his dick is more than interested and his body is numb and his skin is tingling and his mind is racing but it’s all around Mickey. It’s all because of Mickey. And it’s a feeling he’s maybe never felt before, he’s maybe never acknowledged before, he’s maybe never realized before. This feeling, this feeling right here, is the feeling of FOREVER. Beginning, middle, end. All of it. All of it right here against his lips and under his fingers and beating, the beating heart against his own. 

And, “fuck, I love you.”

And that’s all. That’s all that MATTERS. That’s all that ever mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright people, the time has come the time is now. Don't ghost me. I'm on to you. I know you're subscribed and you're giving me ghost hits because you wanted to see if I could fix what I broke... And there's two chapters left. And we're almost there... And maybe I'll sit on them for a day or two or twenty seven. I don't know yet :)
> 
> Helpful reminder - I don't normally take this hard of a stance on Ian. So if you didn't like my unfair treatment in this one, head on over to any of the others. Most of the others - check the damn tags first. I like when fiction hurts. I'm not going to lie, I love when fiction hurts. And I love when I can put a different spin on something that you never saw in canon but now that I've spun it that way you're seeing it, aren't you?
> 
> I'll never be persuaded to write prison fluff, but we'll see if I decide to revisit this with a more equal shake in the future and we'll see where S10 takes us. I mean, really, as far as the prison setting went in this, walking that line of Beckman and realistic is still softer than I would normally go. So, I guess, you're welcome for that anyway :)


	19. No Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tad bit about going home. A little road trip to help heal a heart.
> 
> So the stuff between the asterisks is a flashback - it's an excerpt from Right There Next To You. The little memories of the friendship won't make a hell of a lot of difference to anyone who didn't read it. But it's pretty much just a little wrap up for anyone who actually had any amount of caring for Lou by the end of that work. I liked her by then. Even if I was the only one... whatever I'll stand by her in all her fucked up ways. 
> 
> Yeah so talk about caving to fan pressure - like the whole three people reading it as I'm posting it - here you go! I'm washing my hands of this piece. I guess one of the things about leaving it sitting on the desktop staring at me for weeks before I post it, it's like reading a brand new work as I'm posting. And surprisingly it's not taking much editing.

No Maybe

“Well, fuck,” flopping flat on his back in the insanely comfortable bed in their place. Their apartment. Their HOME. 

“Just did,” Ian’s hand lands on Mickey’s, the one resting on his chest, sliding fingers through fingers.

“Guess we did,” turning his head, eyes landing on those green ones that hold all the pain of the past, all the happiness of the present, and all the certainty and uncertainty of the future. Right now, well, right now, all they hold, the only thing they hold, the ONLY thing that’s written in green is LOVE. And maybe some lust. And maybe a whole shit-ton of pleasure. 

“Missed you.”

He brings their entwined hands to his mouth, leaving an imprint of his lips on the back of Ian’s. Keeping his eyes on Ian, keeping his focus on Ian, a smile rises. And he doesn’t have to ask, he doesn’t have to wonder, he doesn’t have to ask this time, ‘you ever think of me?’ because he KNOWS. He knows. He knows because he saw him and he felt him and he heard him and he wrote and he called and he was THERE this time. And he doesn’t have to wonder or ask, he doesn’t have to worry and hope and fear the answer, ‘will you? WAIT.’ Because he did. He did this time. 

And now he’s waiting. He’s waiting. And Mickey knows exactly what his annoyingly touchy feely ass is waiting for, “alright, c’mere.”

Don’t have to tell him that shit twice. He’s tucked in and half draped over and surrounding Mickey immediately. With his head tucked under Mickey’s chin and his breath moving across his chest and his fingers pulsing grips against Mickey’s hand. His bright as fuck hair tickling his skin and his presence rolling tingles down Mickey’s spine. He slides his fingers through that damn hair that’s always been a fucking beacon, begging him to touch, feel and press lips against. 

“Hey Mick?”

“You really gotta ask that?”

“No,” that embarrassed breathy laugh as his fingers clamp down tightly, “thank you. You know, for, um, for not stopping.”

“Huh?”

“Um,” his head rises now, his eyes locking onto Mickey’s, “not stopping loving me. You know, you said you forced yourself to stop. But, um, I just, I mean you never did. I never did either. I had a shit way of showing it, but I never stopped loving you.”

There’s a fog, it’s foggy in his chest and it’s thick in his throat, and it spins a little in his eyes, but it’s in a GOOD way. He doesn’t respond, the way his voice would sound if he did, fuck that. Instead he cocks his head, and that’s all it takes. All it takes before he’s sliding over Mickey and crashing into his lips and attacking his mouth with all the passion and lust and love and desire that he’s always attacked Mickey with, even when Mickey wasn’t ready for the incoming assault of CARING.

————

His breath comes out in a huff as a shudder races down his spine and Ian lifts his head to watch and he kind of hates that stupid fucker for watching right before his eyes plaster themselves shut and the tingling, floating, falling, crashing, falling apart happens. And it happens in his arms. And against his lips. And they linger. They linger there just like that for a long time. Or maybe a short time. Mickey’s not sure. 

But he knows that when they pull away, he doesn’t want that. He wants him to STAY. Even though his lips are sore and his tongue is tired and he’s so fucking close to sleep. Fuck, and now his ass is sore too.

“Fuck, Mick, I don’t know which is better,” nudging him with his nose to get him to open his eyes, “bottoming or topping. We’re going to have to flip a coin for it from here on out,” he smiles tenderly and his hand slips through Mickey’s sweat dampened hair. 

He doesn’t respond. Not with anything more than a grunt. It’s not like he has a fuckin’ answer for that either. His heavy eyelids are winning the sleep war but he can still feel that fucker starin’ at him. And fuck, he’s tired. He’s so fucking tired. Jesus, fuck, “the fuck you lookin’ at?”

Smug bastard’s got a smile on his face, he don’t have to open his eyes to know that. Pressing a lazy fuckin’ kiss against Mickey’s mouth before he rolls off him and nudges and grunts and rolls and pushes and pulls until he’s got Mickey’s half asleep body wrapped up in his giant wide-awake one. Fuck him. He can stare at the back of Mickey’s head all fuckin’ night. Sleep. Sleep feels really fuckin’ good right now. Sleeping in THEIR bed, in their HOME, in Ian’s ARMS. That’s feels pretty fuckin’ GREAT. 

Waking up, waking up in the same goddamn spot, with his breath on his neck and his arms around him and his damn bony knees up tight against his legs and nothing but sweat between them; it feels too good. It feels so good that his damn bladder is just gonna have to wait. ‘Cause he ain’t movin’. Not ’til he HAS to.

————

It ain’t bad. The job ain’t bad. Not like it was ever some dream of his. But it’s not like Mickey ever had the luxury to dream of a career or a future or a LIFE when he was young enough to dream. So it ain’t bad. Inflictin’ some pain on a stranger when they’re payin’ him to do it, better than pimping and scamming and fuckever else he used to have to do to stay alive. And Ian’s dumb ass is already talkin’ about whatever he wants for a coverup on his Monica tattoo and he wants Mickey to do it when he’s ready. Kind of okay with Mickey that Ian’s trustin’ him like that.

It ain’t bad to quit smokin’ and drinkin’ and doin’ stupid shit. ‘Cause now he’s got a reason to stay alive and have dreams and hopes and allow himself to be HAPPY. And he’s got a good goddamn reason to keep doing it. And it don’t matter that it’s monotonous sometimes, it’s peaceful monotony. It’s content monotony. The need for excitement, that shit’s gone. It was fulfilled by a childhood of runnin’ from the law and beatin’ the shit out of people and gettin’ locked up and tryin’ like hell to survive in a house that was unsurvivable. It was fulfilled through Mexico. And he don’t REGRET a single fuckin’ choice he’s made. Not a single goddamned one. 

————

They take a road trip. They get it all cleared with their parole officers and their jobs and whoever the fuck else there is in the long line of shitheads they gotta check in with. And they go. They head west. They head west. They head west to California and they stop all over on the way. They stop at National Parks and State Parks and Tourist Attractions and just fuckin’ wherever the fuck they feel like stoppin’. They take their sweet fuckin’ time ‘cause this time they ain’t runnin’ from the feds. And this time when they’re sleepin’ on a blanket under the stars, this time, THIS time, he KNOWS he’s coming with him. There ain’t a MAYBE or a POSSIBLY or an IF about it. It just IS. 

And when they get to California it’s Deran with his sparkly blue eyes and his surfer blonde hair and his whole fucked up lot of baggage, but he’s kind of smilin’ and his embrace is pretty damn friendly and nothing more, and his bar is a pretty cool fuckin’ place but Mickey’s certain that Oceansiders got no idea what a dive bar actually looks like. It’s Deran who kept her shit safe for the last months turning into years and Mickey ain’t even sure how long it’s been, even though time on the outside is time like regular time, but fuck if he can remember what season it was or what year it was when Deran was sittin’ across from him at the picnic table tellin’ him, ‘at least Emma has her mom back now’. 

It’s Deran who cracks a beer and sits around the fire ring outside after bar close and reminisces a little about her. And Ian ain’t drinkin’ but Mickey is and it feels okay, it feels good, it feels like they can laugh and they can REMEMBER her, the way she DESERVES to be remembered. 

It’s Deran who tells him she’s buried down in Mexico. Eddie had her put in the ground next to her daughter. They’re both right there, right next to each other, in a field of wildflowers in the desert of Mexico. And maybe someday they’ll go down and see it. Maybe someday they’ll stay at the resort and take a day trip to the desert and visit an old friend. And yeah, SOMEDAY, maybe someday that’d be pretty fuckin’ okay. And maybe someday, maybe Mickey won’t have to tell Ian about Mexico, ‘cause maybe someday he can see some of that shit for himself.

It’s Deran who hands Mickey a bag of cash that he’s been holding for him since she died. And Mickey doesn’t want to take it. But Deran just shrugs and says, “she left it for you for a reason,” and he hands him the necklace. The necklace. HER necklace. Her Saint Valentine pendant. And he remembers. Fuck, he remembers. He remembers it all. Her SMIRK and her SMILE and her GRIN. And he remembers, he remembers her VOICE and her WORDS and all the weird shit she was always sayin’ when she was high and she was lonely and she surrounded by people but still completely ALONE. And he remembers, he remembers sitting in the fading desert sun. He REMEMBERS. 

******

He feels her gaze though he can’t see it in the darkness that’s descended around them, “well, when I was eight my mom died right in front of my face. January night on the streets of Detroit. Didn’t take long really. Not as long as it felt. I ended up in the system until my shit father came for me when I was twelve. I was seventeen on the streets of LA when I finally just ran. As far as I could. I don’t know how long I was in Mexico before I got lost in Purgatory. Don’t know how long I was in Purgatory before Charlie found me. Nursed me back to health,” her exhale meets Mickey’s fingers as she hands the joint to him, “I figure I’ll end up bein’ just like that old man someday, so I should probably keep him fed and clothed. He’ll wander off some night, another lost soul in Purgatory. But maybe he’ll find his daughter out there,” her elbow meets his side gently, “don’t worry about what he said back there. He’s just nuts.”

“He might be nuts, but he’s mostly right,” sighing his herb-infused exhale into the night air, “why’s he call you Valentine?”

“Fuck, you really are a shitty snoop. Valentine’s my middle name,” she snickers.

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah, ain’t it fitting? Valentine the priest who married young couples when marriage was prohibited. Beaten, stoned, and beheaded for love. And now we celebrate him with a day of overpriced flowers, chocolates, cards, and dinners. The patron saint of lovers,” she tosses another rock, this time he hears it hit bottom, “alright. Let’s fuckin’ go before Purgatory swallows us whole. And we start talkin’ about more shit that don’t make sense. Like love. And crows. And crazy old men alone in the desert.”

“And shoes tied together hanging out of a tree.”

“Oh those. Those make sense. Those are the soles of the lost souls.”

“You fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah. Now let’s fuck off before our shoes are hangin’ in that tree gettin’ shit on by crows.”

******

Fuck, he slides his thumb over the pendant and wonders, he doesn’t wonder, he KNOWS. He knows she spent her time in purgatory. Her time in purgatory was right here on Earth. The time she spent without her daughter. The time she spent planning her revenge and knowing it would kill her. Her time is purgatory is over. And Deran’s right, Emma’s got her mom back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, I want to write for AK but they haven't pissed me off enough yet to rewrite anything. And those characters are all so fucked up in so much the right ways that I don't feel any need to explain them. Although I was shocked out of my fucking mind when I saw people not understanding Mickey's actions or Ian's actions. So maybe if I did a little internet trolling I'd find things that fans have said about AK that I might need to present differently in a fanfic. So many of my motivations for fics have come from simple comments whether they're on the YouTube videos (yeah whatever I watched some Gallavich vids before I fell into AO3), or on comments made on my works, even simple comments that haven't pissed me off have spawned some of my favorite works. Fuck, even sometimes I'll see a tag on something and I don't know the writer or read the work but an entire word spew will fall out based off a damn tag. It's really a ridiculous thing in the most glorious way.


	20. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are we committed now?

Always

Watching the desert whirring past them through the open window. Feeling the hot air on his face, and his hand on Mickey’s thigh. His hand has been on Mickey’s thigh since they left Oceanside. Just resting there. No pressure. Just a TOUCH. Just a touch when he knows Mickey’s riding emotional turmoil and his lip is being gnawed on, right hand on the wheel, left one rising every so often to thumb at his nose. But he’s okay. He’s just fine. He misses a friend, he will for a long time, maybe for the rest of his life. A woman who took him under her wing in a strange country with a strange language and a strange set of street rules. A woman who didn’t have to do jack shit for him. Found him hungover on a beach one morning and decided he was worth something. She decided he was WORTH something. Sure, could have been his smart mouth and his uncrackable tough guy facade. Could have been she recognized his street worth, knew a thug by the tattoos on his fingers and the cocky in his strut. Or maybe she just looked at him and saw SOMETHING. Something worth keeping around, worth befriending, worth mentoring. 

“Stop in Vegas? Throw some quarters in a slot machine?” he wonders with a half-smile, “check out this fuckin’ Chippendales?”

Ian laughs at the thought of Mickey in a strip club again. Like that shit wasn’t uncomfortable enough the first time. Or the next time, “nah,” he squeezes his thigh, “only naked dude I ever want to see for the rest of my life is sitting right next to me.”

“Yeah,” he half snorts, and all smiles when he turns to look at Ian, “fuckever tough guy,” a tiny pink blush painting his cheeks, “guess it ain’t a good idea to start gamblin’ when we’ve got a duffle bag full of cash anyway.”

“Probably right. Besides, Vegas is kind of flashy.”

“Flashy,” he smirks, “yeah sure. Probably couldn’t handle a place like Vegas without a shit ton of booze,” he thumbs his nose, “but, uh, there’s that whole cheap quick marriage thing they have going there.”

“What? Like Elvis impersonators?” he snorts out a laugh 

“Sure they ain’t all Elvis,” he mumbles it out the windshield.

Ian would be an idiot not to notice the tension in the muscle under his fingers. He squeezes tight with his left hand and starts researching on his phone. The city is looming like a mirage on the horizon. The promise of fun and freedom and money and booze and not a single fucking worry in the world can find you in a place with all those lights and clubs and casinos and drag queens and prostitutes and strippers and performers. Not a single care in the universe can find you in a place like Vegas.

He clears his throat, “looks like our first stop will have to be the Las Vegas Marriage Bureau. Got some ID?”

Gorgeous eyes glittering like the surface of every ocean Ian has ever seen and every ocean Ian has never seen and all he wants to do is drown in that one. The ONLY one that EVER mattered. A smile surfaces, half-surprised, half-hopeful and all Mickey, “you sure?”

“Fuck yeah.”

————

And they’re doing it. They’re doing it. They’re doing that thing that maybe they’ve both always wanted and both always been afraid of for so many different reasons and maybe the day Ian saw Mickey doing it with some whore was the day he decided he’d never. He’d never marry for any reason other than lifelong love. It wasn’t after watching Frank and Monica self-destructing and taking down their children in the process. Every time. Every single fucking time. And it wasn’t watching Fiona and Gus and Fiona and Sean and the whole long line of men she’s sabotaged her happiness with and for and over. And it wasn’t Lip and his use of women like Mandy. Treating them like they don’t matter until they believe they don’t matter. 

Fuck, and maybe Ian did that to Mickey. Maybe after he watched him marry a woman, maybe back then he had himself convinced it was to act straight, maybe he thought it was only to make his father happy. Maybe he didn’t understand that it wasn’t JUST that, it was never JUST that with Mickey. It was everything. It was the entirety of his shitty life that Ian watched and ignored and believed Mickey was tough enough for. He believed Mickey was tough enough to CHOOSE Ian over his own survival. But now? Now he knows, he UNDERSTANDS, he sees Mickey. He sees the boy he loved when he was fourteen and he was wrapping his fingers around his in the store. He sees the boy he loved through the glass at juvie. He sees the boy he loved when he was threatening to kill Frank. And the man, the man who didn’t kill Frank for his own survival. The man who didn’t let all three of them die that day, the day he took control of an uncontrollable situation with a whore, a hateful father, and a pistol. He TOOK the control because he had to. He HAD to, he had to survive.

And he married that whore because he HAD to. He had to keep surviving and he had to keep that baby away from Terry. And he had to pretend. He had to pretend. Fuck, he was so good at pretending to be all the things he wasn’t back then. He was so good at pretending.

Looking at him now, at the HOPE and LOVE and HAPPINESS in his eyes when they contact Ian’s, he’s not pretending anymore. He’s not pretending. Mickey is Mickey. He is Mickey now. He is the boy and the teenager and the man. He is the words he’ll never say and the things he’s always done to prove them and the whole fucking lot of survival. Looking at him now, it’s not survival he’s after. He’s not JUST surviving anymore. He’s living. He is LIVING. 

He smiles through his vows. There’s no tux or priest or line of whores this time. There’s no forced words and sweaty palms. There’s no glares from the blind redheaded moron standing by the bar acting like he had a CHOICE. There’s no family and no friends and no one. Nothing more than the official and the witnesses. The witnesses who don’t give a fuck who they are or where they came from or why they’re doing this. Or how many shitty things they’ve done to each other before they got here. They don’t care if they’re Southside trash or ex-cons. They don’t care about the bipolar and the temper and the fighting and the punching and the abandoning. None of that shit matters to them. They just came here to see some smiles and hear some vows and sign some papers. And that’s just fucking fine. They get to witness the sealing of a lifelong love. The lifelong love that Ian tried to stifle and forget and hide and pretend it didn’t matter. But it was always there. It was ALWAYS there. From that first sly smirk and that very first dare, ‘you know where I live if you got a problem’. 

ALWAYS. And maybe it was hard to find sometimes. Sometimes through the beating and punching and pushing and fog of meds and prison bars and plexiglass and a fucking border. Maybe it was hard to admit it. Maybe it was hard to admit that he loved him even when he was locked up for a decade and he was escaping to a country where Ian could never be stable. And maybe it was hard to admit at first when he came back. When he appeared from nowhere like a delusion and Ian couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to just do things the way they’ve always done things.

Now, now he understands. He understands that for the first time in Mickey’s life he knows he’s WORTH something. He’s been shown he’s more than just a shit-talking, bitch-slapping piece of Southside trash. And sure, he’s still that too. And that’s pretty fuckin’ fine with Ian. Because he’s so much more. He’s ALWAYS been so much more. And Ian will spend the rest of of his life with this man. This man who is nothing less than the universe. 

“I will,” he smiles at Mickey as a chill rolls down his spine and he’s not even certain what exactly he just agreed to. He can’t hear it past the rushing in his ears and the tingling in his guts and the fluttering of his heart. But whatever it is, whatever it is, it’s EVERYTHING. It’s sickness, health, good times, bad. It’s all that shit. It always has been. It always fucking will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck yeah, we're committed.
> 
> Snip, snap, snout, this tale is fucking told out. Thank fucking Gay Jesus, it's over. 
> 
> I'm not going to add the ramblings chapter. There are plenty of things I'll kick myself over with this one. But the entirety of it was just Mickey's emotional journey. And keeping up with that style of storytelling and the pace of the piece just didn't leave a lot of room for the backstories and the fill-ins and whatnot. There are things that will always be a little blurry about this one simply because of the atmosphere. 
> 
> My assumption for this work from the start is that the audience will be tiny. So those few of you who made it, you best be leaving me some damn kudos! That shit it my payment for the time and effort put into posting. It was written, like I said already, and just sitting there and I went back and forth about posting it or not. But two of my main supporters assured me they'd read it if I shared it, so here we are! And I shared it in quick succession knowing that would also be detrimental to any increase in audience, but sometimes these ones where I feel like I'm standing on a ledge, are the ones I'm not even sure I want an audience for aside from my few trusted readers who know me and I can't shock anymore. However if you are new to me, thank you! If I pissed you off, I apologize-ish. Sort of, maybe not at all. Fiction is fiction and the only disservice I can do to a character is to not explore as many aspects of them as I possibly can. Even shit that's out of character, even shit that's biased, even shit that's just plain old harsh. I didn't create the issue, I merely strung the words together. 
> 
> So you know the drill. Kudos, comments, share it, bathe me in praise... piss on it, shit on it, light is on fire. We had a bird once who used to tear up paper and regurgitate it for nest building. And it's fucking weird and I hate the concept of caged birds, but if you want to feed it to a bird for nesting material, whatever floats your boat. Just make sure it's actually okay to feed it to a bird for nesting material before you do it. I want no dead birds on my hands. 
> 
> Oh friends, that is the end of this road. I'll see you on Sunday for I'd Be Waiting. And I promise that one will make you smile.
> 
> Elvis has left the building.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated :)


End file.
